A Funny Little Apocalypse Coming
by Immortal Alliance
Summary: What would happen if an ancient and completely crazy ex general decided to try be June Cleaver? What if she has a house warming and enough Immortals show up to make it a gathering never to be forgotten? Well, there goes the neighborhood!
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome to the wonderful world of A Funny Little Apocalypse Coming, or as we affectionately call it AFLAC._

_Our world is set in an Alternate Universe that dares to ask that ages old question... What would happen if an ancient and completely crazy ex-general decided to try be June Cleaver? This is just what happens when Madison Harris, once a general in Hannibal's army, sets up house in a settled, family oriented, middle-class subdivision of Seacouver. Join us as we discover what happens when a peaceful, little community of mostly normal mortals are suddenly confronted by a... well... a gathering... of Immortals._

_This AU contains canon Immortals who have died in the series and movies, and yet continue to live in our world. Canon Immortals who have never met may meet here, and probably will. The focus of the story, however, is on the Original Characters, of which there are quite a few._

_The authors, known as the ImmortalAlliance, are a group of five individual writers (with the occasional guest writer). Individually, we are known as Bladelover, ttZorro, Madigirl, Zalyka, and SouthernBreeze. We first starting writing together on a chain fic where we first created our original characters, found we shared common interests, and a similar, if slightly twisted view, of the world. We decided to take our characters to their own little world and AFLAC was born. Since this is a collaborative effort, but we are each writers in our own right, we will start each chapter by telling which author or authors were involved._

_All the Canon Characters belong to Davis/Panzer, as do the original concepts we are so happily borrowing. We are not making a cent off of this, but enjoying it immensely all the same. All the original characters belong to their authors and may not be used without their explicit permissions._

_Chapter One is submitted by Madigirl_

As she sat astride her horse, smiling grimly as she surveyed the army marching past, Londinium allowed herself the pleasure of feeling the warm afternoon sun on her back. Hannibal would be pleased. They were making a name for themselves as they traveled inexorably toward Rome. They were a force to be feared; strong, fearsome, ruthless, and unstoppable. By the time they reached the gates of the City itself, the people should just lay down their weapons in terror, and plead for their lives. She wondered, idly, if Hannibal would indeed spare them.

Her musings were interrupted as a messenger ran toward her. He stopped before her and, falling to one knee, bowed his head to the ground, waiting to be acknowledged. Londinium watched the passing troops for a few minutes before turning her horse to face the waiting man. Looking down from her position of power, she finally spoke. "Give me your report."

Without standing, or looking up, the man gave his report, word for word as it was given to him. "Valerium sends his greetings to the General. He has returned and wishes to report that there is one great house and two small villages ahead. He reports that initial scouting shows no threat of resistance. He recommends that we march through."

Londinium turned to an aide that waited at her side. "See that he is given rest." Then without giving the messenger another glance, she spurred her horse forward. She rode quickly past the marching troops, her long red hair flowing behind her, giving the image that fire followed her as she rode. When she reached a small collection of tents, she halted, and jumping from her horse, strode quickly to where a man stood at a small table, studying maps rolled out before him.

"Val!" Londinium greeted her Second, and her closest friend, effusively. "How long until we arrive at Rome?"

Valerium looked up from his maps and smiled broadly at the approaching woman. "General, greetings." Londinium was struck, as she often was when she came upon her Second, by the ease with which he wore his authority. His manner here, in front of the troops, was essentially the same as it was as when they were alone. It was a quality she admired, but could not afford to emulate. "It's only a matter of days." He pointed at the map on the table. "We're close, now. The only thing in our way are these villages." He drew a line with his finger that intersected several small patches of humanity. "They shouldn't slow us down much. Our scouts report they're simple farms. There are no weapons, or warriors, in fact, very few men."

"They won't slow us at all." Londinium said, looking at the map. They were much closer than she had thought. Hannibal would be pleased with her report tonight. "Burn them."

"Burn them?" The man before her wore an expression that betrayed his confusion and shock. "But it's unnecessary. They provide no threat, no resistance."

Londinium gave the man before her a dark look. Had there been anyone foolish enough to eavesdrop, they would have thought the young-looking general had grown suddenly taller than her usual 5' 6". "I decide what is necessary."

"Londinium." Valerium lowered his voice as he talked to his friend, and not his commander. "They are mostly woman and children."

"And so the greater impact." Val looked into cold, blue eyes, and saw no trace of the woman he called his friend. "Do as I say, or I will find another who can obey orders... and you shall share their fate."

The general walked back to her horse, mounted and rode away to report to Hannibal.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrng

The jarring sound of the phone ringing caused the young-looking woman to jolt upright. She sat there trying lose the encampment in her head and replace it with the bedroom before her eyes. She blinked against the morning sun showing through the slats in the blinds, and put down the cavalry saber that had, almost miraculously, appeared in her hands. When the phone rang again, impossibly loud, she picked it up as quickly as she could, knocking over the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels that sat next to it.

"Damn!" she shouted into the phone.

"Most people say hello, before they swear at me." The voice on the other end carried the bemused sarcasm that Madison recognized all too well.

"They don't know you as well as I do, Adam." Madison ran her fingers through her hair, frowning both at the still unfamiliar length, and at the fact that, beneath her fingers, her head was throbbing. "What do you want at..." She picked up the clock and stared at it in disbelief. "Six o'clock?"

"Interesting thing." The voice on the other end of the phone was irritatingly jovial, and just loud enough to grate. "I woke to find that someone had called and left six separate messages on my voice mail, all demanding to know if my friend was really going to show up and play at her party." There was a sudden high-pitched tone that seemed to drag on for at least an hour. "Oh, sorry, finger slipped and hit the button. If I recall, that last call contained a threat that involved chains and hot irons if he wasn't, and I quote, 'the best damned thing this neighborhood had ever seen.'"

Madison grimaced, but couldn't stop herself. She had to ask. "He is coming, isn't he? Methos, you were the one who convinced me a blues player would be just the thing for my party. The party planner, what's his name... Marcelo. He said a nice quartet would be better." Madison started frantically pushing the button on the intercom that was connected to the apartment above the garage. "Dammit, Methos! You promised."

"Relax." The voice was now openly laughing. "He's coming, and so am I, thanks for asking. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

A new voice was added to the conversation, as the intercom began to talk. "What can I do for you, Ms. Harris?"

The voice of Madison's personal assistant was a welcome oasis of calm and quiet. "Riccio, what time is Marcelo going to be here?"

"Seven, this morning, Ms. Harris." There was a sound of rustling paper. Madison mused that no matter what time she summoned Isabella Riccio, she always sounded wide awake, and she always had papers at hand. "He wants to be here before the decorators and caterer."

"Ok, good. Thanks, Riccio." Madison was about to hang up the phone, when she remembered she had been talking to two people.

"Adam?"

"So glad you remembered me." There was a sound that Madison was pretty sure was a bottle being opened in the distance. "Look, Maddy." The voice lost its irony and sounded sincere, maybe even concerned. "It's not too late to cancel this thing if you want to."

Madison carried the phone with her to bathroom and stared in the mirror at a face that wore conservative red-brown hair, smartly cut, where she was used to seeing bright red spikes. "Now why would I want to do that? I have to get to know my neighbors sometime." She looked longingly at the jeans and t-shirt that lay wadded up in the corner, and then smoothed a wrinkle in the tank top she would be wearing above the khaki skirt she had chosen to wear today.

"No reason." The voice paused. "I'm bringing a friend. I hope you don't mind."

Madison sighed and reached behind the curtain to turn on the shower. "No. Bring them. The more the merrier, I guess."


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter contributed by Bladelover_

ooOooOoo

Cheery sunlight streamed through each window that Donald passed as he left the master bedroom and came downstairs, through the neat dining room and into the spotless kitchen. Donald never noticed the sunlight, the neatness, or the spotlessness, though; his mind was elsewhere.

"Morning!" chirped Ruth with a bright smile, her short blonde hair neatly coifed as always as she stood on tiptoe to reach into a cabinet for a mug for his coffee. "I bought some of those peach Danish yesterday, and there are cinnamon raisin bagels in the refrigerator."

Not bothering to point out that he hated Danish and that cinnamon raisin bagels were the favorite of their visiting eldest son, Louis, not his, Donald bypassed the fridge and opened the bread drawer, opting for simple toast. "Honey, where's the bread?"

"It's right there, in the drawer."

"No, this is Louis's 96-grain stuff that feels like particle board in your mouth."

She slapped him lightly on the arm. "Oh, what a silly exaggeration. Anyway, it's only six-grain."

With a sigh, Donald closed the drawer and accepted the offered mug. He took a sip and grimaced. "What happened to this coffee?"

Ruth beamed, her still-pretty face exuding delight that her husband's uncultured palate had discerned a difference. "Louis brought it for us! It's one of those exotic blends, Almond-Vanilla-Raspberry. Isn't it delicious?" She took an appreciative sip from her own mug, which was embossed in gold with the words, "Planet's Greatest Mom, Love, Louis." Donald thought she quivered a little in her enjoyment of the beverage, which was slightly disturbing.

"Do we have any coffee-flavored coffee?"

Ruth's expression conveyed that he seemed determined to be difficult. "No, not already made. I can make up a fresh…"

The phone rang, and Donald grabbed the receiver of the cordless mounted on the wall, shaking his head as he answered to indicate that he didn't want her to go to that trouble. "Hello, Dr. Os… Osz… Oszszy…"

"Just say 'Oz,' Rochelle," Donald told her. "Everybody does."

"Dr. Oz, this is Rochelle from Manpower." Although Donald had already demonstrated awareness of her identity, Rochelle was apparently incapable of deviating from the script she'd drawn up in her mind prior to dialing. Perhaps this accounted for the unsatisfactory way his account had been handled thus far. "I'm returning your call from yesterday."

"Yes, actually, I tried to call you several times yesterday," Donald said, sitting at the kitchen table and forcing himself to drink the coffee. He flashed a brave smile at Ruth in hopes of some conciliation. "I told Patty not to come back today, and I thought that perhaps we could go over my receptionist requirements again, since this is the third one I've sent back."

"Well, Doctor, all the people I've sent so far have had the skills you requested… computer-literate, fluent in MS Office, experienced in filing insurance claims…"

Closing his eyes, Donald strove to keep the edge out of his voice. "Yes, those are the _technical_ requirements. But in a psychology clinic, there are some personality requirements, as I mentioned to you initially. Danielle, the first one you sent, chewed gum incessantly. She also spoke loudly, so there were privacy issues."

"Danielle told me she felt she had to shout to be heard through the glass partition between her desk and the client counter."

"Well, my old receptionist solved that problem by opening the sliding door in the partition." Sighing, he took another sip of nuts, vanilla, and fruit laced with a trace of coffee.

Rochelle cleared her throat and continued. "Then there was Bert…" She paused, clearly uncomfortable. "Well, I wasn't going to tell you this, since he didn't sound very credible, but Bert claimed to have been physically assaulted. He said you pulled him on top of you."

Donald jumped up, spilling the rest of the uncoffee all over a floral fabric placemat. Ruth clucked and dove into clean-up mode, and Donald moved to the large opening between the kitchen and dining room. "I didn't assault him! In the middle of a session, I realized I needed a file, and I opened the door to find him pressed against it, trying to listen! He knocked me over and _fell_ on top of me."

"Oh, wow. Dr. Oz, I just… um… wow."

"Yes, wow! And then there was Patty, who was fine, except she was pathologically nervous. She was a _poster child_ for nervousness, a bundle of edgy mannerisms. She made my clients anxious. One of them did nothing but sob for an entire session, because Patty had given a little scream every time the phone rang while the client was waiting for her session."

"Do you want more coffee?" Ruth was saying. He shook his head, pointing to his watch to indicate his lack of time to fully savor a second helping of such a delectable brew.

"All right, well, I do have someone else I can send today, as it turns out," Rochelle said, apparently choosing not to comment upon the third failure. "Her name is Miranda Parker, and…"

"Fine, send her on over. I'll be at the office before nine, and my first client comes in at ten. We'll have just enough time to cover the basic procedures."

Hanging up, he moved to give Ruth a quick peck on the cheek. "You're not eating _anything_ for breakfast?" she demanded.

"It's okay. The coffee was fruit-flavored." Winking at her disapproving scowl, Donald turned to leave.


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter was contributed by Bladelover_

ooOooOoo

Donald was in the garage and just opening the car door when Ruth hurried after him. "Remember, we have the party tonight!"

Donald stopped dead in momentary disoriented panic, thinking that she meant they were _hosting_ a party that he'd forgotten about. No, that wasn't possible – Ruth would be in a state of total manic activity right now. So, they were attending a party, somewhere.

"Don't tell me. You've forgotten it." Ruth's voice was both resigned and accusatory, a neat vocal trick, really.

"Um, no, I haven't. It's, uh… for the Symphony League, right?" When Ruth merely folded her arms, he tried again. "The Friends of the Library? Ballet Boosters? The… the, uh…" Realizing that there was no payoff possible at this point, Donald sagged a bit. "Oh, all right, what is it?"

"Madison Harris's housewarming party. I've reminded you about it three times."

"Oh. Right. I remember now." His heart sank. Their new neighbor seemed to have difficulty relating to people. He could only imagine the discomfort of a party thrown by her. Begging off was not a possibility, though – Ruth had already served as a one-woman Welcome Wagon, and considered it the duty of the entire household to help the new arrival feel at home.

"So please, try not to be late tonight."

"I'll try, really." Donald's practice had grown unexpectedly in the last few months when a colleague and former grad-school classmate had inexplicably become a contestant in a new reality series involving eight mental health professionals living in a house in a remote area, intent on diagnosing one another's various issues. All the guy's clients had been referred to Donald and another unlucky former classmate, and Ruth was quickly losing her patience with her husband's increased workload. Already, she'd been late to several social functions and had actually attended two of them without him. "It's Friday," he said, trying to reassure her. "I shouldn't be late tonight."

Smiling with only a trace of doubt, Ruth, gave a little wave and turned to go back inside. "Before you leave, would you fill up the finch feeder?" she tossed over her shoulder. "I have such a hard time reaching it."

Donald grabbed the finch-food bag from a metal shelf and hurried into the backyard. The feeder was located outside the window next to the kitchen table, and as he rounded the corner, he caught sight of their neighbor, Madison, standing at her own kitchen window sipping from a mug. He felt a stab of envy, certain that what _she_ was drinking wouldn't taste like vanilla or fruit or rose petals or whatnot. He filled the feeder efficiently, and as he hung it back on its hook, he made eye contact with Madison. She seemed momentarily at a loss, then flashed him a _huge_ smile somewhat reminiscent of a Pez dispenser. This was accompanied by a wave so energetic she might have been trying to flag down an ambulance. Waving and smiling in a more subdued manner, Donald replaced the bag of birdseed, got into the car, and headed for work.

Driving along the gently winding streets of the Quiet Springs subdivision, home to the Oszszyniec clan for over 20 years, Donald had to wonder what had brought his new neighbor here. She'd moved in with some sort of underling she referred to as Riccio, although Ruth was convinced that they were actually a "couple." Donald, however, recognized a sense of command when he saw it. In fact, his first experience with Madison had been rather unnerving. She'd been standing in her backyard, which adjoined with the Ozzes' backyard, staring intently at a bush with her hands on her hips. Donald was about to do some weed-trimming, but approached the fence to introduce himself first.

As he'd cleared his throat, she had started and whirled around in a defensive stance. She'd even started to reach behind her as though for a gun, although he had clearly seen from behind that she wasn't carrying one. The look in her eyes was fierce, cold… almost warlike. Immediately, she'd altered her posture to something less predatory, and they had proceeded with the introduction. But the weed-trimming had suddenly taken on a higher priority, and Donald hadn't lingered over conversation – which seemed to relieve his neighbor.

His stomach growled abruptly, reminding him to stop at the first available Starbuck's for some coffee and a muffin to take with him. He felt guilty for being glad that Louis wouldn't be staying with them past Sunday, and not just because the empty nest seemed oddly crowded, with Louis's childhood friend Colin (an honorary Oz) staying with Donald and Ruth while on medical leave from the Los Angeles Times. Their oldest child, a rising star in the Seattle corporate world, was in town to participate in a ceremony at the high school, his alma mater, which was inaugurating an athletic scholarship in his name. Louis had excelled in both academics and sports, but it was his accomplishments as quarterback that people still talked about.

Not that Donald wasn't proud of him, but somehow, relating to Louis had just never been easy. It wasn't just that their interests were different – there was something distant about Louis, a sense of… enclosure. Not at all like his siblings. Bambi and Gary were open books to Donald, and he'd always enjoyed a warm relationship with each of them, filled with understanding and humor. The humor had come in handy. Neither of the younger Oz offspring had managed the kind of full-steam-ahead successes that Louis had achieved with apparent ease.

Gary, unlike his big brother, was slight of build and not too interested in sports. He was artistic and an accomplished pianist. Somehow, Ruth had convinced him that engineering was his true calling, and the kid had landed a scholarship to MIT. He was due to arrive home soon from his freshman year, after only sporadic communications since he'd gone back after Christmas break. Donald was sort of dreading it, sure that _something_ was going on, and that it wouldn't be a good something.

Bambi… well, Bambi was the middle child, and Donald had always tried to pay her extra attention. Unfortunately, so had Ruth. His dear wife had spent huge amounts of energy instructing their daughter in how to be better. Happier. Kinder. Prettier. Not so fidgety. Smiley-er. Less slouchy… The result was a young woman who didn't know what to do, never got it right, and was miserably unsure of herself. Donald wished that his own affirmations of confidence in her could have made up for it, but he knew that a mother's influence was just too much to counter.

The word "counter" had barely crossed his mind when a Starbuck's appeared on the corner, and Donald's thoughts simplified to a mere blob of inarticulate need. He pulled into the lot and hurried inside, seeking sustenance for what was sure to be a very long day.


	4. Chapter 4

_This Chapter contributed by SouthernBreeze_

Steering her little green convertible through Seacouver's downtown streets, Miranda Parker carefully followed the directions given to her over the phone earlier that morning. There was supposed to be a small medical park located behind the entrance to a donut shop on the corner of Main and Pacific, but her unfamiliarity with the city streets was causing her some difficulty.

"Why can't these streets have nice, easy to follow _numbers?"_ she muttered, consulting her notes again. Just then, she caught the flash of the bright pink and orange sign with the steaming coffee cup logo out of the corner of her right eye. There, just beyond the garish plastic sign pointing to the drive-thru, was another far more elegant white sign with gold lettering nestled in a bed of flowering shrubs.

"Williams Memorial Medical Park…that's it!" Quickly downshifting, she slowed just in time to turn in at the entrance without barking her tires….much. She stopped for a moment to read the directory just inside the entrance, and noted that there appeared to be only a dozen or so offices listed. There were two family practices, two gynecologists, three dentists, a hematologist, two dermatologists, an orthodontist, a podiatrist, and one psychologist. "2D, that's the one," she murmured to herself as she slowly drove into the park.

The buildings each housed two offices and were strategically arranged around a parking lot shaded with large plantings of ornamental trees and shrubs. Nodding appreciatively at her surroundings, she found a parking space near the entrance to office 2D and pulled in.

She didn't get out immediately, however. First, she grabbed a brush from her purse and quickly pulled it through her wind-blown hair to tame the blonde shoulder-length tresses into something more suitable for an office. Next, she turned her sun visor down so that she could check her makeup one last time in the vanity mirror before going in. She didn't normally wear much …just some mascara to accent her dark brown eyes and blush to highlight her prominent cheekbones, but she pulled the top off of a tube of shell pink lipstick, gave it a twist and applied it to her full lips for a little extra polish. Finishing with a quick inspection of her straight white teeth, she stuffed everything back into her purse and opened her door.

Unfolding her long legs from the tiny car, she stood gracefully and straightened the skirt of her crisp linen suit before walking up the sidewalk toward the office. Expecting the typically sterile décor of most doctors' waiting rooms, she was pleasantly surprised upon opening the door. The area was tastefully decorated in softly muted tones, with potted plants and comfortable chairs arranged around a low table set with magazines and a small dish garden. Against one wall a large saltwater aquarium gurgled pleasantly under an abstract painting done in soothing colors that blended well with the relaxed and cozy atmosphere of the room.

All in all, if it weren't for the counter with the glass partition on the wall opposite the door, the room could almost be taken for any suburban living room. She liked it.

Just then, a man appeared behind the glass carrying a sheaf of papers and looking somewhat distracted. With salt-and-pepper hair and distinguished features, he was reasonably attractive, she decided, in a father-knows-best sort of way.

Noticing her, he smiled and set down his papers as she approached the counter. _So far, so good,_ he thought to himself, noting the young woman's calm, professional appearance. Sliding the glass partition aside, he said simply, "Please tell me you're here from Manpower."

"Why, yes sir, I am!" she answered, extending her hand through the opening. "You must be Dr. …Ozzy …Ozzy-neece…?"

Donald chuckled, and resisted the urge to say "gezhundheit" as he shook her hand.

"I'm sorry…" She blushed, smiling an embarrassed smile. "That wasn't right, was it."

"Not even close," he grinned. He found the soft southern drawl she had wrapped around her attempt at his family name charming. Opening the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the office, he motioned for her to come back with a wave of his hand. "But don't worry about it, just call me Dr. Oz……everyone else does."


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter contributed by Bladelover_

A tall blond man came in through the back door. His gray t-shirt sported a dark V-shaped sweat stain on both the front and back, but the company name "MegaSoft" and their well-known globe-in-the-hand logo were still clearly legible. Mopping his brow with the navy blue sweatshirt he carried, he opened the refrigerator and got out a bottle of water.

In his features one could easily see he was a blend of both his parents, but somehow in him the blending had achieved perfection. He had his mother's hair and bright blue eyes, his father's nose and smile, but it all worked together to make him strikingly good-looking, and uniquely Louis.

The morning run was a ritual that he had started in his freshman year of high school, and he'd maintained it regularly even through college. These days, the demands of his position as a marketing communications manager for MegaSoft left him less time for fitness rituals than he liked, but being back in his childhood home, far from the concerns of the corporate world, he could afford to indulge himself.

"Good morning!"

Louis swallowed the last mouthful of water from the bottle to return his mother's smile as she came into the kitchen. "Morning," he said, wiping his face with the sweatshirt again. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"It's always a beautiful day when you're back home," Ruth said, pouring him a cup of coffee. She'd already put a bagel into the toaster. "So, I suppose you've noticed all the changes in the neighborhood."

Louis laughed. "Nothing ever changes here. That's what I love about it."

"What do you mean? The Gellers put in one of those hideous above-ground pools, Lois Harvey had an extension built onto her garage – which she's still trying to get the contractor to come back and finish _properly_ – and the Mendelssohns had that huge tree removed before it could fall through the roof. Oh, and they bought an even _bigger_ SUV. I think they might have used _it_ to pull the tree out by the roots."

Sniffing the coffee in the mug she handed him, Louis smiled in recognition of the aroma and took an appreciative sip. "That's what I mean. Nothing _important_ ever changes. Quiet Springs is always… Quiet Springs."

Ruth placed a plate of freshly buttered bagels on a placemat and Louis sat down to eat. Ruth ran a hand through his tousled hair, staying on the surface because it was sweaty underneath. "We also have a new neighbor, Madison Harris. She bought the Sylvans' place. She's having a housewarming party tonight. You should come."

With a knowing expression, Louis chewed a bite and glanced sideways at his mother. "Do I detect another attempt at matchmaking?"

"Heavens, no! I think she has a 'friend.'"

"A 'friend?'"

"Oh, you know. Another woman _lives_ with her. Although she seems to live in that apartment over the garage. Probably for the sake of appearances."

Louis hid a smile and tried not to laugh. Obviously, his mother didn't realize that if two lesbians wanted to keep their status a secret, the last thing they were likely to do was move into a house together in a close-knit, family-oriented subdivision. But at least this meant she wasn't trying to set him up with the new neighbor.

"But I wish there was _someone_ around for you," Ruth continued, as though reading his thoughts, at least partially. "I just hate that you're still all alone."

"Not like I have time for a girlfriend right now anyway. I'm usually working or sleeping."

"That's not healthy," Ruth said decisively, putting her hand on the refrigerator door. "Want some orange juice?" she asked, in an apparent effort to combat his unhealthy lifestyle with nutrition.

"No, thanks." He took another bite of bagel. "I'll finish this and take a much-needed shower."

"Still," she continued, "you're at an age when you should be thinking of settling down. You need someone special in your life. You and Colin, both. I worry about you two."

Reaching for her hand, Louis smiled and said, "I know you do, and I appreciate that. But you just can't force this stuff, you know? When I meet the right person, I'll know it, and it'll happen."

"But if all you do is work, how will you ever meet anyone?"

"Maybe on the internet," Louis said, with a mock-serious expression. If Ruth knew he was joking, her horrified look didn't betray it.

"Good lord, no! They're all perverts and serial killers out there."

"Then I could always call Colin. An investigative reporter is bound to have useful contacts for finding out about anyone I wanted to meet."

"Where is Colin, anyway? I don't think he ever did eat a proper breakfast."

"He's in the driveway, working on the Mustang."

"In the driveway?" Ruth fretted. "I hope he's not getting oil all over the place again. I'd better go check…" Like a shot, she was out the door to the garage, a tiny blonde mess-seeking missile.

Louis snickered and finished his coffee. At least he was off the hook for now. He wished Ruth wouldn't worry so much. His life was fine. His life was _great._ He'd meet the right girl someday. He was sure of it.


	6. Chapter 6

_This post contributed by Chally1970 and Bladelover_

ooOoo

The red 1968 fastback Mustang in the driveway looked out of place in this quiet suburban neighborhood, but then so was its owner. The man currently on his back changing the oil filter was blond with deep blue eyes that could turn icy during an interview but were now focused on the mechanical task at hand. He was over average height at about 6 feet, tanned and looking very comfortable in jeans and the formerly white t-shirt he wore. He hummed along with the Cars and "My Best Friend's Girl" as he dabbed at a few oil spots that had dripped as he worked.

"Colin James Mallory!" Ruth's voice broke the morning quiet.

Colin automatically swung his head up in response to the drill sergeant-cum-den mother tone in her voice. Unfortunately, he was still under the car and its steel frame that was bothered not at all by his forehead smacking into it.

"Son of a…" Colin cursed.

"Don't you dare finish that, young man," came Ruth's intimidating tone once again. "And come out where I can see you."

"Yes ma'am," he replied, in as calm and pain-free a tone as he could manage. He slid out from under the car, rubbing his forehead.

"Louis told me you were out here working on that car." Ruth pointed at the Mustang and looked expectantly at him, as though she'd actually made a concrete accusation.

Colin looked up at her with a confused expression. "Yes? And?"

"_And_ last time you got oil all over my driveway!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

"I…" Colin began to retort before stopping. "It was an accident last time, I was much more careful this go 'round." Seeing her "show me" expression, he pointed to the blue plastic under the front end of the car. "See? I put down a tarp and pulled the car onto it this time. And drips or spills go on the plastic, not the driveway.

Ruth seemed appeased by this and smiled at him. "Thank you, dear. That was very considerate of you." Colin smiled at the abrupt change of tone. She'd gone from accusing him of thoughtless vandalism to praising his voluntary consideration.

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Mm, not yet. Wanted to get this done, work up an appetite."

"All right. Well, I'll get you some coffee." She seemed ready to go back inside, and so he started to kneel to get back under the car. When she stopped and turned back, he stopped too. "Of course, you'll need to clean yourself up before you sit down to the table. I wouldn't want oil stains in my kitchen."

"Yes ma'am, I'll clean up first."

She smiled brightly and left satisfied. Colin slid back under the car and finished tightening the oil filter and drain plug before standing back up. Ruth meanwhile had gotten him a mug of coffee and brought it back out.

"Thank you." He said accepting the coffee and sipping it. She seemed to be waiting for a reaction to the taste, which struck him as odd until the taste actually hit him.

"Louis brought that back from Seattle," she explained proudly. It was clear that she was expecting a positive reaction, so he plastered on a high-wattage fake smile until she walked inside, which changed to disgust as Ruth shut the door.

"Oh God, that _sucks_!" he muttered after spitting his mouthful of coffee out in a nearby bush. "It tastes like a warm smoothie. That is _not_ coffee." Jesus – Louis really drank that swill? Maybe he needed to drag the big guy to Starbucks or something, reacquaint him with the taste of real coffee.

No, not Starbucks. The Groundskeeper. The locally owned and operated coffee shop had been a major hangout for the two of them throughout high school and college. Much more of a personal connection.

It struck him that for best friends, he and Louis had sure managed to put some distance between them in the last couple of years or so. Of course, Louis had been living in Seattle for five years, and Colin had spent the last three in Los Angeles, but that was just geography. They'd both managed to keep in contact through email and phone calls and online chatting, until about two years ago, when things had just gotten… complicated. There seemed to be less time for chatting and too many real-life obstacles. It was kind of shameful, really, given as close as they'd been, as much a part of the family Colin had been made to feel.

He was overwhelmed suddenly by a memory from five years earlier – the send-off party that the Ozzes had given Louis before he left for Seattle…

ooOooOoo

Colin and Louis sat out on the back deck behind the house and drank their beers in silence.

"So when exactly do you start? The actual job, I mean?" Colin asked tentatively breaking the silence.

"Wednesday," Louis replied. He sounded like he was trying to be assertive and enthusiastic, as though still interviewing for the position.

"That's cool," Colin said a little too heartily. "In case I didn't really make it clear, I really am happy for you. This is exactly the kind of break you deserve."

"Yeah, it's a great opportunity," Louis said with mixed excitement and fear. "I can't believe they want me to work in the main office in Seattle."

Colin snorted. "I can believe it. MegaSoft knows winners when they see 'em. I've never seen you fail at anything."

The public mask of confidence and success Louis always wore when among others wasn't present as he looked at his friend solemnly.

"There's always a first time." Louis said dramatically.

"Bullshit," Colin said simply. "Twenty bucks says you have the place in the palm of your hand within five years."

"You're on," Louis said with a grin, and the two shook hands.

They lapsed into silence after this, finishing their beers, and then went inside. The interior of the house was a babble of voices and a torrent of noise. Ruth rushed here and there, attempting to get the guests to eat and drink more and generally control the room, which is what she did best. In the family room, Louis' kid brother Gary was impressing some of the neighbors with his piano playing. Colin idly wondered where Donald was in this crowd.

Probably hiding out in his study playing poker, Colin thought.

Colin saw Louis' sister Bambi spill someone's drink spectacularly all over the coffee table. He fought the urge to grin and stepped out of the way as Ruth rushed past on clean-up patrol. Bambi used that moment to head upstairs quickly and very red in the face.

Colin excused himself and headed up the stairs after her.

"Bam," Colin said quietly as he knocked on her bedroom door. "Bam, open the door."

"Who is it?" she asked tersely.

"It's me" Colin replied in an exasperated tone. "Who else uses my voice and calls you Bam?"

Bambi opened the door and peeked out at him. "What?" She sounded angry but looked embarrassed.

"I saw what happened downstairs and came up to see if you were okay."

"You are such a boy scout sometimes," she sighed, and opened the door to allow him inside.

"Come back down to the party."

"Why? So I can make a fool of myself again?"

"There's gotta be _some_ entertainment. Gary can't play all night." He regretted the joke immediately as the hurt on her face stung him. "Seriously, it's no big deal. Everyone makes a fool of themselves sometimes."

"Yeah, sometimes, not every five minutes."

"Come back down with me," Colin said, extending his hand. "I'll get you through the next five minutes, and then the next five, and then the five after that."

"Why do you try so hard?" she asked suddenly. She had a teenager's way of going from self-involved to probingly insightful that took him aback sometimes. "Why do you care how I feel?"

"You want the simple answer?" he replied, because it never seemed uncomfortable to level with her. "Because you and your family are all I have."

Colin stopped for a moment, knowing that he didn't have to rehash his past – that he'd lived with an "aunt" who'd provided him with everything but love and a sense of belonging, that he'd never had brothers to play and fight with or a sister to tease… or to comfort.

"You, and Louis, and your parents, and even Gary? You guys make me feel like I have a real home. Believe me, _that's_ a big deal."

Bambi seemed to be considering him intently, and he felt briefly resentful for the scrutiny. Maybe he should have just left it alone. She'd have come out of her room eventually. Ruth would have made her.

She sighed heavily, and the weight of her teenage angst was all over her face. Man, it would be a relief when she got through that phase. But he found himself feeling all kindly toward her again. It probably wasn't easy being Bambi.

She was looking at his hand now, the one he'd extended earlier but which he'd let fall back to his side. She could have just reached for it herself, but he knew she needed the reassurance that the offer was still on, so he extended the hand again. She took it, and they went back down the stairs. They could hear the sounds of Gary playing the piano in the family room as they got closer to the bottom.

"Let's go see if we can embarrass Gary; about his turn wouldn't you say?" Colin asked her and smiled.

Bambi nodded her assent and they moved over to torture the youngest Oz for a while.

ooOooOoo

In the garage, Colin cleaned his hands of oil stains with Goop as the memory faded, frowning slightly as he realized that his reminiscence of Louis had somehow veered away to Bambi, as though the distance between him and his friend was actively striving to maintain itself. It gave him a freaky, paranoid feeling of impending loss, or maybe of loss that had already happened and that couldn't be reversed.

Which was stupid, of course. People moved far away from each other, got immersed in careers, and started taking friends for granted for a while. It happened, and it had obviously happened to him and Louis, but it had only really taken place in the last year or so. It wasn't a freakin' tragedy, and it certainly wasn't too late for them to bridge the gap.

He replaced the lid on the Goop can, wiped his hands on a nearby shop towel, and headed inside for the continuation of his promised clean-up.

The Groundskeeper was a damned good place to start building a bridge, he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

_This chapter is being submitted by _ Madigirl

"I'll be upstairs if anyone needs me." Duncan wiped the sweat from his body and wrapped the towel around his neck. "I need a shower."

Richie looked up from the books he'd been poring over all morning, and sniffed. "Yeah, good idea." He tapped some keys on the computer, looked closely at the monitor and groaned, dramatically. "Man, Duncan, who was doing your books while I was gone? These things are a mess."

Duncan moved, came around the desk and looked over Richie's shoulder. "Actually, it was me. Is it that bad?"

"That depends." Richie moved the monitor slightly so Duncan could get a better view, a little further down wind. "Did you intend to put towels and laundry under income?"

"I'm supposed to say no, right?"

"Go take your shower."

"Yeah." Duncan sighed. "Thanks."

A wave served as a response as Richie, pencil in mouth, continued to punch keyboard buttons, and making little sounds that could have been expressing anything from amusement, to concern, to disgust, to oh my god, what the hell is this? Duncan, for his part, took the freight elevator that led to his loft, and headed to the shower. Letting the water wash away the remains of a work out that didn't quite work, he wondered if the day could get any worse.

It started off so nicely. He woke to the sound of birds singing sweetly just outside his window, and really that almost never happened in this part of town. He got up, stretched and smiled as he threw open the curtains. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to close the window last night, and those birds were actually inside, and not at all happy about having choir practice interrupted. The scratches took almost twenty minutes to heal.

Still, he was determined to make this day work, despite the breakfast of burnt toast and orange pits he had just eaten, so he headed down to the dojo. His morning kata would center him, and he could then face the scheduled meeting with the auditor. This cheered him considerably until the elevator opened to the sounds of 15 falsetto voices all speaking at once about school, Yu-Gi-Oh and some hot model named Jenna that everyone agreed that they would "do". It was at this point that he remembered that, in a desperate attempt to make the dojo pay for itself, he had started selling lessons to Boy Scout troops. He pressed himself against the wall, and walked slowly around the children, lest he startle them and cause them to attack, and fairly ran to the front door.

Looking at his t-bird, parked as usual in front of the dojo, he became aware of two things, pretty much at the same time. Firstly, he had gotten a ticket, and secondly, the birds had not felt satisfied with attacking just his face. He got into his once beautiful car and drove to the IRS. Sitting behind the desk, wondering just why it was he felt like a criminal, he listened as a very severe woman, who was, apparently, impervious to his charms, told him that he had made mistakes on his last six quarterly reports and he now owed a sum of money that could feed a the entire nation of Belgium for at least three weeks.

Duncan stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around his waist. At least it couldn't get any worse. He'd just stay here, safe in his apartment, until it was time to go to that house warming thing that Methos had insisted he attend. Nothing bad could happen if he did that. With an incredible sense of security, Duncan put on his favorite white bathrobe, padded out to the living area, chose a book that he had read several times, and therefore knew he would like, and sat down in his favorite chair. At last, all was right with the world and all he had to do was maintain this rightness for a few more hours.

That very thought, however, was the kiss of doom and just to prove that fate was far more powerful than the thoughts of one immortal having a crappy day, the elevator's motor began to roar. A moment later, so did his head, as the buzz of another immortal hit. Duncan grabbed his katana and stood in front of the elevator door, waiting. Chances were it was only Richie, but chances had been against him all morning. As the door opened, Duncan brought his sword to a defensive position, ready for any attack.

"Now really, MacLeod. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Fitzcairn!" Duncan wasn't quite sure if this was a change in fortune or not. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't a fellow visit a friend?" Fitz gave the sword a meaningful look. "May I come in, or must I push the down button?"

Duncan let the katana fall to his side, and gestured into the room. "Be my guest." He walked over to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, held the pot up in offering and replaced it at Fitz's slight head shake. "So, why are you here, Fitz? I thought you were in New York with that model. What was her name?"

"Jenna." Fitz said. "And we have decided to move on."

"She dumped you."

"Right." Fitz came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and smiled when he found a left over bowl of pasta. Searching drawers, he, finally found a fork, and took a bite of cold, cheesy goodness. "But that does leave me free tonight to visit your local hot spots."

"You are welcome to stay, Fitz, but tonight I have to attend a party." Duncan regretted saying that almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "Just some house warming of a friend of a friend."

"Excellent." Fitz fairly beamed. "It's just the thing I need, a quiet evening with a few friends."

Duncan was about to beg off, thinking this was just the excuse he needed to get out of a party he was sure was doomed to be a bore, when he saw his friends face. Fitz did seem to have the knack of falling to quickly for the wrong women, and he did seem to need some kind of recuperation. Giving in to the inevitable, Duncan tried to stifle his sigh. "I have to make a call, but I'm sure it'll be fine."


	8. Chapter 8

_This chapter contributed by Bladelover. My apologies for the short length; it didn't seem to work appended to another chapter._

_ETA: People seem to be bypassing Chapter 7, probably because I posted this chapter immediately after Madi posted that one. Please make sure to read 7. (It actually has canon characters!)_

ooOooOoo

It was a busy day at the Welcome Waggin' Veterinary Clinic. There were four dogs and two cats recovering from surgeries as well as a number of boarders, and the waiting room was full of pets needing annual shots, follow-ups for injuries or illnesses, and a couple of first check-ups for new adoptees.

All in all, it could be described as a hectic day, but the atmosphere at Welcome Waggin' was usually pretty laid-back and upbeat. The vets were demanding but fun people, and the aides and office personnel found it easy to maintain a positive attitude most of the time.

So it was with a smile on her face that the slender girl with the long, straight blonde hair bounced into the kennel area. "Hi, guys! How's it going?" A chorus of ear-splitting barks erupted, and she winced. "That well, huh? Well, I gotta check on the kitties, then I'll be back to start taking you all outside." She passed through the almost tangible din and closed the door behind her, entering the comparative silence of the feline kennel.

"Hey, catfolk, what's shakin'?" Plaintive meowing issued from some of the cages, but it was nothing like the dogquake in the other room. Humming a little in between murmuring consoling baby-talk to the pampered captives, she checked and changed the poop-trays and refilled food and water containers as needed, the picture of cheerful efficiency.

The door opened, admitting both frantic barking and the head of her fellow aide, Nancy. "Bambi, you've got a phone call."

Bambi was balancing an exceptionally soiled tray that she needed to dump out, and flashed a quick smile in acknowledgment. As she turned toward the waste disposal container, Nancy added, "It's your mom."

The toe of Bambi's right shoe caught on the bag of Iams Adult cat food, causing her torso to pitch abruptly forward without the usual corresponding movement from her bottom half. The bag flopped over, depositing small yellowish nuggets all over the floor, but Bambi's immediate concern was avoiding a similar fate for the poop on the tray. In a heroic display of graceless acrobatics, she twisted herself painfully, keeping the tray steady as she somehow managed to plant her left foot solidly on the floor. She now looked like a Barbie doll whose legs had been removed and replaced incorrectly, trying to do the splits.

Attempting to slide her right foot closer, she lost her balance and teetered ominously on her left. Just as Nancy reached her side to assist… Bambi regained her balance. Both women froze, momentarily stunned by the suddenness at which disaster had been averted. With wide eyes, Bambi stared at the tray, unable to believe that she had spilled not a single turd. She and Nancy laughed heartily, if a bit hysterically, until they were both rather breathless. Nancy opened the door to leave and reminded her co-worker of the phone call waiting.

"Be right there," Bambi said, sighing a little. Resuming her journey to the waste container, she took a quick step forward firmly on a pile of cat food, and in short order found herself face down on the floor. The tray was flattened beneath her chest, poop-side up.

"I'm okay," she said half-heartedly.

The room was filled with the excited sounds of canine self-expression as Nancy stood in the doorway staring down at her. "Good grief, Bambi! You gotta stop letting her do this to you. Every time your mom calls, you go all Three Stooges about it."

"I can't help it. I just… she always… I can't help it."

"I'll get you a clean smock." The door closed behind Nancy, and Bambi slowly got up. The poop-tray clung to her like plate armor. Ha! She needed more than that to deal with her mother.

Peeling away the accidental breastplate, Bambi muttered, "Same shit, different tray."


	9. Chapter 9

_This chapter contributed by Zalyka_

Several months ago:

Downtown Seacouver was emptying out as the late night dinner crowds went home. But even after midnight when most storefronts were darkened, the bars were full of customers. And across the street from the Seacouver Cineplex, in Hailey's Gourmet Café, a confrontation was taking place.

"A blood latte! Coffee and blood. What don't you get? It's not that difficult of a concept!" Alexandra stood at the counter, smelling strongly of whiskey and yelling at the frightened girl behind the cash register. "Bad enough the bar won't give me any to go with my liquor, because they're a bunch of stingy bastards who think they can tell me when to leave!" she said, turning towards the door to yell the last part in the general direction of the nearest bar.

"I'm I'm sorry," the girl stammered. "But we don't serve blood. Perhaps if you try somewhere else..."

"No! I need it now!"

Just then, a man wearing a Hailey's uniform with the word "manager" embroidered on the shirt pocket appeared from the back section of the store and with a surprisingly composed tone addressed Alex and the café employee. "Is there a problem here?"

"Yes there's a problem!" Alex said, turning around quickly to glare at him with threatening blue eyes. "What is a vampire supposed to do to get a drink in this city? This is a pathetic excuse for a blood latte!" She pointed at a plain latte sitting on the counter.

"I'm terribly sorry about that..." the manager began reflexively before pausing. "A vampire, you said? You're telling me you're a vampire?" "Yes, that's what I'm saying. An immortal, blood-drinking vampire! Like in Dracula! The House of Frankenstein! Van Helsing! The Return of Dracula!"

"That's very interesting," the manager told her, not believing a word of her rant. "But we simply don't have any blood in stock right now. There's nothing I can do."

"Oh, I think there is," Alex replied coldly, suddenly much calmer than she had been only moments before.

The manager and Alex stared at each other for a few seconds as they stood on opposite sides of the counter, giving onlookers the impression of a silent standoff between a housecat and a cornered mouse... each waiting to see if the other will make the first move.

During Alex's rants the majority of café patrons had decided to take their grande double mocha extra-caffeinated French roast espressos "to go", leaving the coffee shop nearly empty. But by the time of the manager-crazy person face-off, the last of the customers were realizing it would be a good time to get out before a bad situation got worse.

As they faced each other from their respective sides of the counter, Alex broke the silence by snarling and suddenly clambering over the counter, knocking the rejected latte to the floor in the process. As soon as she was on her feet, she grabbed the manager and bit him on the base of neck. The manager's scream of surprise and pain were accompanied by the cashier's screams of terror. As the manager shoved Alex off of him, three Seacouver police officers arrived at the café, having been called by one customer who had been in the store and saw the beginning of the attack.

A few minutes later, two of the police officers subdued Alex, while one checked on the condition of the café manager. "Do you think you need to go to the hospital, sir?" the officer asked.

"No, I think I'm fine," he replied, removing the hand he had clamped over his neck and checking for blood. The reddened teeth imprints that marked his skin were already starting to turn black and blue. "I don't think she broke the skin."

The manager watched as Alex was led out of the café by the police. Seeing him watching, she called back, "Next time, add blood to the coffee!"


	10. Chapter 10

_This Chapter is submitted by madigirl_

"This is NOT a floral center piece!" Madison looked up from the morning reports Riccio had copied from the computer in the office and brought to the kitchen for her approval. "That is a damned casket spray." Madison pretended to search for a file as she surreptitiously watched the party planner, Marcelo, pull out his cell, flip it open, and punch a series of numbers, never once losing eye contact with man who steadfastly refused to take back the garish flowers sitting on the dining room table. "Rebecca? Marcelo... Fine... Look, Rebecca, the flowers you sent me are all wrong. This is a quiet neighborhood soiree, see? It's not the latest Trump wedding, ok?... Right, knew I could count on you, babe. See ya." The smile Marcelo wore as he handed the phone to the now frowning delivery man had just the barest trace of triumph. "She wants to talk to you."

Leaving the phone with the loudly protesting delivery man, Marcelo walked into the kitchen and poured himself a mug of the coffee Riccio managed to never let run dry. Turning, he leaned against the counter, took a slow sip, and looked at Madison thoughtfully. "You know, when the caterers get here, they're going to need this kitchen and that table. Maybe you could pretend to work in the dining room for a while." He set the cup on the counter and stood up straight. "I'm sure you'll be able to watch me from there."

Madison flipped through a stack of papers. Without looking up, or acknowledging Marcelo's comment, she spoke to her Executive Assistant, who was typing into a lap top and speaking into a head phone. "Riccio, I don't seem to see the profit/loss analysis from MegaSoft here. Is it still in the office?"

Riccio fingers flew across the keyboard of her laptop. "It seems we haven't received that report yet this morning, Ms. Harris."

Madison frowned. "Damn. I need that post this morning. Please make some calls and find out which butt needs kicking, and then kick it." She looked around at the milling workers and then, significantly, at Marcelo. "Down in the office, so we don't bother the caterers."

"Right" Riccio folded her laptop, gathered her ever present papers, and quickly left the room.

Marcelo watched the middle aged, sensibly dressed, model of efficiency walk by and stood silently until everyone else was out of earshot. Then he turned to face the woman who was now standing just out of arm's length. He forced a smile that, nevertheless, seemed to come easily. "Alone at last."

The smile was not returned. "Nothing is going to ruin this party."

Marcelo held his hands up, palms out. "Hey, I'm here to do a job, nothing more. My job is to give you the perfect party; the best damned party this neighborhood has ever seen. In fact, if I do my job correctly, you shall go down in Seacouver history, right next to the Tannebaum Tupperware party of 1962." He lost the smile, and his voice became serious. "I'd rather skip any other activities, if you don't mind."

Madison stood quietly and regarded the man before her. She had been watching him since he arrived this morning and she had first felt the tell tale buzz of another immortal. Physically, he was tall, maybe 6'2", and he seemed to be well built, though it was hard to tell with his choice of jeans and oxford shirt, worn untucked. He moved with an ease of body that spoke of good physical and mental training. Madison had been impressed with the authority and precision with which he worked and wondered if, in another lifetime, he had been in an army. Even now, as she held his gaze, he didn't flinch. Instinctually, she felt she could trust his word. "Agreed."

The easy smile was no longer forced. "Good. Now that's settled, let's discuss where we should set up the buffet. Actually, I was thinking maybe we should have two: one in here and one out on the ..."

"Hello?" Both immortals looked to the foyer, to find a petite, well turned out, blonde stepping happily into the house. "The door was open. I hope you don't mind."

Madison wasn't really sure what the appropriate response was here. This wasn't a good time for a visit, yet this was the one neighbor with which she had anything even coming near to a relationship. "Well," she began, uncertainly. "I do have some work I have to..."

"I just thought you might need some help with the party." She walked into the dining room, looked at the display of flowers that still sat in the middle of the table, and touched one of the petals, just to confirm that they were real. "Not that you wouldn't do just a wonderful job, but, I do have lots and lots of experience with this kind of thing."

"Well, ummm yes, I'm sure you do." Madison had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to make the world's biggest faux pas. "But, see, I've hired Mr. Trinidad here."

Ruth looked at the dark haired man that joined them by the table, eyes and smile growing large. "Not Marcelo Trinidad?"

Marcelo took the hand Ruth offered in a firm but gentle grip. "I'm sorry, Ms..." He stopped and flashed a slightly embarrassed smile. "Have we met?"

"Oh, no." Ruth enthused. "But I have heard of you. I just loved the work you did at the library fund raising dinner and the party to welcome the new polar bears to the zoo. I attended both of those and, well, everything was just beautiful."

"Thank you, Ms... I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Please, call me Ruth. Anyway, you do beautiful work, just beautiful." She looked back at the flowers. "Although I would think that a neighborhood party, might be something a little different than you're used to." Ruth peered hopefully into the kitchen. "I suppose you might need a little help."

Marcelo looked at Madison, who was obviously wishing that she had just stuck with the paper work. Suppressing a smile, he turned back to the eager woman. "You know, Ruth. There is something, but I hesitate to ask. You must be very busy."

"Oh, no." Ruth exclaimed. "I mean I'm never too busy to help a new neighbor."

"Well, I did just speak to my caterer, and it seems that he forgot the finger sandwiches."

Ruth's barely audible gasp showed that she knew just how serious this could be. "I would be happy to bring them." She gave Madison a reassuring look. "Don't worry. We won't let a little thing like that ruin your party. I'll just call Bambi," Looking back to Marcelo, she explained. "That's my daughter. And we'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Ruth." Madison said, sincerely. "I really appreciate it."

"Oh, no trouble at all." Ruth looked at her watch. "Oh, I really must be going if I'm going to make enough finger sandwiches for this neighborhood. "I'll see you both tonight." There was about five minutes of goodbyes after that, but at last Ruth left, in search of just the right groceries."

As she closed the door behind Ruth, Madison turned to Marcelo. "Well, I guess I should get back to work." She paused for a moment, and then added. "I'll just be down in the office if you need me."

Marcelo turned to see the delivery man pick up the floral display and stomp out of the sliding doors that led to the driveway where his van was parked. "Don't worry, Ms. Harris. Everything is under control."


	11. Chapter 11

_This post contributed by historygirl, with a couple of very minor additions by Bladelover._

_Author's note: Thought we should remind everyone that all the posts at this point have taken place on a Friday, although perhaps not ordered entirely chronologically. The post that follows, however, takes place on Thursday night._

ooOooOoo

"Omigod, that's Gary O!"

"He is so totally HAWT!"

"His hair!"

"His eyes!"

"Omigod! He's coming over here!"

The two girls, no more than sixteen years old, added some bounces to their running commentary extolling the many virtues of "Gary O" as Kimberly Farrell leaned against the wall watching them. Her short red hair, simple t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots set her apart from the leather bedecked, mostly angst-ridden crowd; her smirk indicated she had left those teen years behind.

"Omigod, he's here! Maybe he wants me to go backstage with him!"

"No way! He wants me!"

"Shut up!"

"You!"

"Gary! Gary! We love you!"

Kim straightened from the wall as the object of teen adoration waved to his fans as he walked by, security not far from him. Her smirk became a grin as she stepped into a tight hug. Over her shoulder, she could hear the gasps of the teen queens.

"Kimmie, it's so good to see you." Her grin got even wider as she listened to him speak. Under the all-black uniform of alternative rock, up to and including the eyeliner, he was still Gary, Bambi's kid brother who had followed them around for years.

"Missed ya, kid," she whispered in his ear, squeezing him before leaning back to reach up and ruffle his hair. "I see they didn't talk you into finishing off the look yet."

"Nah, I like being blond. Makes me stand out." Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Gary started to walk deeper into the backstage area. They hadn't walked more than five steps when an anguished voice cried out.

"Omigod! He's taking her?"

Kim didn't miss a step, turning to speak over her shoulder, "No, _I'm_ taking _him_ … up against the wall, in the shower, on the floor, maybe even on the couch." Spinning back, she grabbed the front of Gary's t-shirt and dragged his body against her, grinning at the chorus of "Ewwwws" she heard behind her. Pretending to nibble a path up Gary's jaw, she whispered in his ear, "Kids today."

Sliding his hands over her hips, he leaned in to whisper back, "You're lucky Marco isn't here to see this. And you and Bambi were just as bad as them, from what I remember."

"Nah, we were never that bad," Kim responded, threading her fingers into his hair, about to ask who was Marco.

Breath tickling her ear, Gary said one word, "Oasis."

"Omigod, the Gallagher brothers, they were so ho—," Kim pulled back to smile at Gary.

"Gotcha!"

"Oh yeah? Well, hang on tight, smartass." Using both hands, Kim tugged Gary into a wet, messy kiss in full view of the backstage area. Just as she felt his cheeks beginning to burn with embarrassment, her ultimate goal, a searing pain ripped through her head. Pulling away, Kim pressed a palm to her forehead above her right eye, and grabbed Gary's hand. "Room, now!"

As the two almost ran down the hall, Kim tried to scan the area for new faces, ones that might come with a sword attached to them, but the further they moved, the less she sensed the presence of the other immortal. Thanking whatever gods might be smiling upon her, she crashed through the door and flopped on a handy couch.

"So, who got who, kid?" she asked, managing a small grin.

"Oh man," Gary groaned, still beet red, "Marco's gonna kill me."

ooOooOoo

Marco Marconi walked wearily off the stage, the last of the sound equipment finally being loaded onto skids to go in the truck. Normally he would have waited, but the gear was going into storage for three weeks until the band's next gig in LA. He was hoping to get things wrapped up quickly so he and Gary could leave early in the morning to make the drive from Portland to Seacouver. Gary had balked, but Marco knew it was time to tell Gary's family.

The sound of the usual groupies hit him before he turned the corner, then a clear voice rose above the din. "No, _I'm_ taking _him_." Curiosity piqued, Marco moved a little faster. Stepping into the long hallway, he saw a fairly fit (if the rear view was anything to judge by) redhead hanging off of … "Gary?"

Marco started moving again; two steps later it hit him, the sense of another immortal. Watching carefully, he saw the woman (and he could see she _was_ a woman, not one of the usual girls who hung around trying to get backstage) thrust her palm against her forehead then drag Gary down the hallway.

"Oh, I don't think so." Muttering to himself, Marco headed for his bag, and his sword.


	12. Chapter 12

_This chapter is submitted by SouthernBreeze_

----

"Miranda, could you set an appointment for Mrs. Tisdale on next Fri…day?" Donald had come to the front desk expecting to find the pretty young blond filing her nails, or reading a magazine, as so many of his other temps had done between phone calls and clients. He was pleasantly surprised, however, to find her standing before his files with an armload of folders, carefully slipping them into their places….._actually working. What a novel concept,_ he thought wryly.

Turning around, she flashed both doctor and client a dazzling smile as she stepped over to the desk and seated herself before the computer screen. "Of course, doctor. When would be most convenient for you, ma'am? Morning or afternoon?"

Donald smiled to himself as he watched her cheerfully chatting with the mousy Mrs. Tisdale while handing her the appointment reminder card through the _open_ glass partition. Idly, he picked up the stack of correspondence that she had apparently finished typing before starting on the files and thumbed through the pages. _Nice,_ he thought, silently pleased, _not a typo in the whole lot…..and she corrected my grammar to boot!_

As Mrs. Tisdale hugged her purse to her breast and hurried out into the late morning sun, he said to Miranda, "You certainly seem to know your way around an office."

"Thank you," she said, flashing that radiant smile again as she went back to her filing. "I have a lot of experience in clerical work."

"You must," he nodded appreciatively. "If you don't mind my asking, what on Earth are you doing working for Manpower?"

"Well," she began slowly, choosing her words carefully, "I move around quite a bit, and temping gives me the flexibility that I need. I just moved here from L.A., in fact."

"Ah…I see." Yes, he saw all right, the one fly in the ointment…she wouldn't be in Seacouver long enough for him to convince her to stay on permanently. _Oh well,_ he thought, _As long as I've got her here, I'll enjoy her…er, um, _use_ her…no, wait, that's not right either…._

Suddenly feeling the blood rush to his face, but thank God, nowhere else, Donald cleared his throat and said the next inane thing that came to mind. "L.A.? Judging by your accent, I would have thought you just moved here from Georgia."

This time her smile was wistful when she replied. "You aren't far off, doctor. I was raised in the Sea Islands of the South Carolina Lowcountry." Then her mood turned mischievous as she directed a stern grin at him, saying, "Just don't ever ask me to say _'y'all'_, okay?"

"Gotcha," he grinned back at her. Then, getting back to business, he said, "Oh, yes, I agreed to squeeze in a new patient today for a colleague of mine, so I won't be taking a lunch break, but feel free to go whenever you can get away."

"Thanks," she answered, "I'll go at about 12:30, and bring something back for you if you'd like."

"That'd be great," he said, relieved that he wouldn't have to rely on a pack of crackers and a coke for his lunch. "You can take some extra time if you need to."

Nodding her agreement, Miranda went to the window to greet Donald's next patient, a nervous little man who peered out at her through immensely thick, round glasses. Donald took the man's chart from her and opened the door to admit him himself. "Hello, Mr. MacGillicuddy…..how are you today?"

Listening to the two men exchange pleasantries as they disappeared down the hallway, Miranda mused that the warm and friendly Dr. Oz was very much like the man who had raised her as his own child many, many years before on the wild and untamed barrier island she called home.

--------------1806, Summer-------------

With golden pigtails flying, a little girl danced out onto the long wooden pier that reached across the salt marsh to the deep water of the Chechessee River. At the end of the pier, tying up a small wooden boat, was a man with kindly eyes as blue as the Carolina sky.

"Papa! Papa!" the child sang out, laughing happily, "Mother has baked a cake for James' birthday dinner! It has white sugar frosting, and looks ab-so-lute-ly delicious! Little Sister and I have been busy all morning making presents for him! It will be so much fun! You must hurry!"

His mood suddenly lightened, Jonathan Parker laughed out loud at the girl's palpable excitement. "Elena Miranda Parker! Slow down before you give yourself the vapors!""Papa! You know I don't get the vapors." Taking his arm, the little girl feigned indignation, but quieted anyway. After a few moments, however, she asked a question that gave him pause. "When is my birthday, Papa?"

"Why, it's July 18th, Elena," he answered, "you know that."

"No, Papa," she said quietly, looking up at him with the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen, "my _real_ birthday. When was I _born?_

Jonathan stopped, and turned to face the child asking the question. Child or no, he decided this was not a time for pretty fairy tales and nursery rhymes, She was nearly eleven years old and wanted honest answers… and she should have them. "You were born sometime in the summer of 1795, that much I know, Elena," he said. "As for an exact date, I'm sorry."

A long moment stretched by, until at last, the child suddenly brightened, and spoke again. "Tell me again how you found me, Papa!"

Relieved that the serious moment had apparently passed, Jonathan took his daughter's hand. As they made their way up to the large house overlooking the wide expanse of emerald green marsh grass along the river's edge, he told her again how the great hurricane had swept across the islands that summer of '95, washing many of the people living on the islands into the churning ocean.

Pointing across the water toward a tiny stand of stunted trees and undergrowth surrounded by the shallow waters of the salt marsh, he finished the tale by saying, "We found you on that hummock, yonder. You were near buried under fallen palmettos, and screaming to the heavens. We tried for many weeks to find your kin, but with so many families washed away in the storm, it was a hopeless task."

"Don't fret, Papa," she said lightly, reaching up to kiss his cheek. "Perhaps I had no kin. Perhaps I was left in the palmettos by elves, or the fairy-folk."

Jonathan laughed. "Perhaps, Elena, perhaps." With that, the pair climbed the steps leading up to the wide porch and entered the welcoming atmosphere of home and brother James' birthday celebration. The subject of her parents was never raised again.


	13. Chapter 13

_This chapter contributed by tt-zorro and sponsored, in part, by readers like you._

The alarm sounded for the tenth time before his hand found the switch to shut it off. He blindly fumbled around the nightstand for his watch. It was an old habit, never trusting a clock he didn't set himself. He trusted his watch; he followed it because he knew it was right, and he knew it was right because he followed it.

Right then, it was telling him that he had slept far too late. He could not afford to sleep the day away; he had plans, places to go.

He had people to meet; well, he had a person to meet. Okay, truthfully, he had a person to find, stake out, follow, with, perhaps, some surreptitious stalking thrown in.

He had spent the entire previous day searching for this person, with no results. Seacouver was not a small city, and searching for a person who likely did not want to be found among several hundred thousand people was no mean task. There was no way to know what name he would use, and he had only seen photos (very old photos) himself; so recognizing him on sight was not remotely guaranteed.

Yes, he certainly had a hard job ahead of him and probably another long day.

Absently rubbing his eyes, he slid his legs out of the bed and mentally gathered himself. He allowed himself a moment to take a sidelong glance at his tin of cherry tobacco and to wonder what the penalty would be for tampering with a hotel smoke detector before going into the bathroom. Deciding against it – he did not want to use his currently-assumed name in the future just to discover himself fined for vandalism – he walked to the bathroom to start his day. He shaved, showered, and emptied his bladder with the oblivious pace of the sleepily absent-minded.

Reemerging from the bathroom and remembering the business of the day, he walked over to the phone and dialed the front desk.

"Yes," he started after the clerk finished his generic greeting, "this is..." He paused for a moment, trying to remember the name he'd used to check in; people tended to trust a person who would give out his name. "Mark... Mark Williams, in room 204. I'm looking for... an old friend who lives in the city, and I was wondering, do you know of a good way to try to find him?"

He missed the days when you could just hand a clerk a C-note and tell them right out you needed to find someone who knows everything going on in such-and-such a city. Every city had one, and a person like that is always useful for finding someone, for any reason.

"Well, Sir, have you tried the phone book?" Wonderful, just wonderful, he wouldn't get any useful information out of this clerk.

"He wouldn't be in the book, thanks," he said, and hung up halfway through the too-enthusiastic apology.

He threw on his clothes, cursing his luck and the long day of searching ahead of him. He grabbed his bag and pulled it off the bed. It caught on his pants leg and he turned, knocking over the lamp on the nightstand. Time slowed as he watched the lamp teeter and finally lose the fight against imbalance and fall. Dropping the bag, he reached for the lamp, practically diving. He saved the lamp, but knocked over the nightstand in the process. The drawer lay as he had left it, half open, its contents spilled out onto the floor. There on the floor lay two books, a burnt-orange Bible – "From your friends, the Gideons" – and a bright yellow phone book.

He decided that it would cost him nothing to pick it up, so he did and found that it was inexplicably opened to the M section.

"Macduff, MacGriff..." He paused, barely able to believe his eyes. The day before flashed through his mind – being drenched by endless torrents of rain, receiving countless blank stares in reply to his inquiries, nearly being run over by not one but two taxis – an entire day of misery when the answer was right in between MacLeod, David and MacLeod, Frank.

"I'll be damned," he said, "MacLeod, Duncan… right here in the book. I can't believe it."


	14. Chapter 14

_This chapter has been submitted by madi_

"No. No. I insist. This one is on you." One of the two Wall Street warriors, still wearing the well pressed power suits of the front line, gestured to the waitress who smiled and headed off yet another round. "I'm not the one who just got the big promotion."

It actually would have been hard for the handsome young broker type to have been the one to get the promotion. After all, you actually have to work for a firm in order to go up the corporate ladder. Cory Raines worked for no one but Cory Raines, and he was working right now. He had been carefully cultivating his friendship with this lap dog in broker's clothing for almost a month. Cory had spotted him early on, and picked him as his man. He was likable, ruthless, smart, and way too full of himself. He was going to go far.

When the waitress brought the drinks, Cory rewarded her with a large tip and a wink. In return he got a smile that carried a promise. He reluctantly turned his head back to the table after watching the woman retreat to the bar. Ah well, business before pleasure. He grinned and raised his glass. "To Maurice Flanner, Broker Extraordinaire." Both men took large drinks and slammed their drinks onto the table ceremoniously. "So tell me Maury, what is like up there in the ivory tower of Digate, Richardson and Klein? You get all the best life can offer, the golden key bathroom, the corner office with a view, the big time clients."

"Yeah. All of that and more." Maury gestured broadly. "I have it all. I even met with old man Klein himself today. He filled me in on my new clients." He took another drink, shook his head and giggled a little.

Cory fought the urge to shout "Pay dirt!", and instead laughed knowingly. "Oh yeah? Get some good ones, did you?" He watched as Maury used his straw to stir the ice cubes in his whiskey, obviously fighting between newly won responsibility and an incredible need to dish the dirt. Cory gave him just a little push. "We all know that the really rich ones are all, what's a polite way to put this... crazy as hell."

Maury laugh fairly exploded as the desire to gossip burst through. "Oh my God, Kevin, you would not believe these guys. I only have five clients, you know, so they can all get my personal undivided attention. Three of them, well, they're just your ordinary billionaires, you know. But I got this one, with him I've got to make sure that everything is presented to him in terms of cowboys, and oil wells, or whatever, because he is all about Texas. He won't hear anything that isn't somehow connected to the Lone Star state."

Cory made a mental note. Finding the name of Maury's clients would be no problem. A quick flirt with a secretary should do it. Then it was just a matter of putting quirks with names, and the scams could begin. "Well, he sounds... interesting.." He gestured to waitress and pointed to his friend's drink. He took a sip of his own designer beer. "But I guess if that's the worst you have to deal with, it shouldn't be too bad. You should see some of the lunatics I have to deal with." Cory knew that this guy would have to one up himself, just so he could win the "I have it worse" contest.

Maury frowned. "You know, I have this one client. Really old money, richer than God, and one of the most aggressive investors we have. She's really odd. No one's really ever seen her. She does all her communicating with us through this tight-haired woman we only know as Riccio. Anyway, you'd think someone like her would be living in a mansion or in some Park Avenue penthouse or something, right?"

"Yeah." Cory leaned forward. The hairs at the back of his neck began to rise as he felt the incredible closeness of opportunity. It was almost as strong as the feeling he got near other immortals, but infinitely more enjoyable. "But she doesn't, right?"

Maury's eyes shifted as he searched the far corners of the room for corporate spies. "No, see that's the weird thing. We're sending all the hard copies of things to some address in Seacouver of all places."

"Really. That is kind of odd, isn't it? Do you think she's hiding out?"

"Who knows?" Maury shrugged. "Klein seems to think it's just the latest in a long line of eccentricities. We've been working for this family through I think it's something like four, maybe five, generations; always with a matriarch with some odd name like Dakota or Frisco or Virginia or something."

Those hairs were now so erect they threatened to jump right off his neck. "Did you say Frisco?"

"Yeah, I think that was the Harris before this."

Cory smiled slowly. "Frisco Harris." Now there was a name he'd have a hard time forgetting.

Maury's eyebrows rose. "You know about her?"

Without missing a beat, Cory changed the smile to a laugh. "No. It's just an unusual name for a billionaire."

"Yeah. I guess." Maury looked around for the waitress and the drink he really didn't need. "But that's the point. The whole family is crazy."

"They certainly are," Cory said, thoughtfully. Before Maury could ask what he had said, he was standing. "Look, Maury, it's getting late, and we peons down on the floor have to get up early."

Maury looked confused, but nodded fuzzily.

Cory left quickly, humming happily. He had some calls to make.

ooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooOooO

Who would have thought some mid-sized city in the American northwest would be such a font of opportunity? Alejandro had arrived in Seacouver nearly nine months ago, looking for a quiet place, maybe on the ocean, to just sort of rest and relax. After nearly 80 years of plying his trade, he deserved a break. As it turned out, however, Seacouver was practically a haven for the upper middle class, Type A workaholic. This meant that there were lonely, bored and needy housewives everywhere a person might want to go. It's not like he was looking for work, but work just seemed to find him.

It started when he decided to attend the opening of the new big cat habitat at the Seacouver Zoo. It was a huge charity ball, held outside, at night, with the now more freely roaming tigers and lions in the background. Alejandro had gone just to see the rare white Siberian tiger, Zeus. Running into Felicia Montrose-Belker had been an accident. Sure, he knew that she was running the event, but really, what was the likely hood that they would bump into each other. If conversation just happened to drift toward the fact that charity balls were all she had to look forward to with her husband, realtor Harry, If we don't have it, you don't want it, Belker, always so busy with work, he could hardly be blamed. And when, in the course of things, arrangements for a better hotel and a place on the social A list were made, well that was only natural.

So, here he was, through no fault of his own, attending a planning meeting for the Dine for the Dolphins dinner, wearing new clothes, surreptitiously checking his new watch, smiling at his new friend Tricia Cramer, wife of Sam, the Sofa King, Cramer, whose motto, "I'm Sofa King crazy", was known far and wide in the Greater Seacouver metropolitan area. According to the plan Tricia had set, at exactly 11:03, he was to stand, announce that he had forgotten about his chiropractic appointment and then ask if someone could possible drive him so that he wouldn't be too late. Then by 11:07, he and his concerned "friend" would be making their way through mid-town traffic, heading for the Bayside Motel, where at exactly 11:30 they would register under the names Mr. and Mrs. Willis. Obviously, Tricia had read one too many spy novel while waiting for her husband to return from late night work sessions, but she was kind and funny, and all the subterfuge made it sort of like a game.

It was now 11:02, and Alejandro tightened slightly, preparing to jump up in sudden remembrance, when his new cell phone rang, causing him to jump, albeit in complete surprise. When his heart found its regular beat again, he looked at the text window and swore quietly. Leaning into Tricia's ear, he whispered apologetically, "I really have to take this. It's a family matter." Tricia's smile didn't waver as she nodded. He saw the disappointment and slight hurt that her eyes couldn't hide, however, and inwardly swore yet again. This had really better be important. Excusing himself and heading out the side door, he finally answered the phone that had kept vibrating, somehow seeming angrier with each passing second.

"Hello, Cory."

The voice on the other end sounded jovial but was obviously irritated. "What took so long, Buddy? Were you... busy?"

Alejandro squinted his eyes against the noon day sun reflecting off the ocean, and wondered if, if he threw hard enough, he could manage to get the phone into the ocean, where some sea lion could swallow it and carry it far from him, separating him from any one who ever called him "Buddy". He hated that name, always had. "As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of something." He knew even as he said it, that this would make no difference whatsoever.

"Well, drop it, and her. I have a real opportunity knocking here, and I need you and your special talents to make it open the door."

"What are you talking about, Cory?" Cory was Alejandro's oldest, maybe his only, friend, as well as his first teacher, yet, even after all this time, he still had a hard time making out what this guy was all about. It was like he was always talking in riddles, always scamming, even with his closest friends. Alejandro had a much more straight forward approach to life. He even saw his work as a sort of business transaction, a sort of even trade deal. The women got a companion who really listened, cared and was responsive to their needs, something they did not get at home, and he got a nice place to live, and those things that made living worth while. The way he saw it, everyone got what they needed. Really, it wasn't so much different from what he did in his first life, as a store clerk. It was an exchange of goods.

"Are you familiar with a woman named Madison Harris?" Cory's words were brimming with excitement. Alejandro could practically see him sitting on the edge of his chair.

Thinking for a minute, Alejandro finally answered. "I think I've heard the name. If I'm remembering correctly, she's having some sort of party tonight. I think a friend of a friend is her neighbor or something." Tricia had mentioned being disappointment that her friend Ruth was giving up the dinner in order to go to the housewarming of a neighbor, some nobody named, he was pretty sure, Madison Harris. "It's nothing important though. There's a much bigger dinner happening on the coast."

"Oh, believe me, Buddy, Madison Harris is far from a nothing."

Alejandro suppressed the impulse to throw the phone down and stomp it to death. "My name is NOT Buddy." His voice was still, somehow, genial. He really owed Cory everything, and he could not forget that. "I'm guessing you would like me to get to know this Ms. Harris, is that it?"

"That's right... Alejandro," Cory laughed, irritatingly. "And I want us to be at the party tonight. I'll be in town at 7:00. You can pick me up at the airport, and then you can do that voodoo that you do so well."

"I can't just walk into a party and start romancing a complete stranger, Cory." Alejandro sat on a bench and stared out into the sea. "It just doesn't work that way." He breathed in deeply, allowing the fresh breeze coming off the way to relax him as much as it could. He really hating discussing the specifics of his profession.

"Fine." Cory was not about to be deterred by the professionalism of a colleague. "What do you need to know?"

"Details." Alejandro shrugged, what he really needed to know is what this woman needed, and how he could fill that role, but on a conscious level he didn't understand that, he just did it. "Tell me something about her, so that I can find the connection."

"Oh, okay." There was silence as Cory thought this out. "She's rich. She's crazy and kind of volatile. She doesn't like attachments. Oh, and she's one of us."

"Immortal?" Alejandro quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard. "I don't know, Cory. I don't see what she gets out of this deal."

"She doesn't get anything." Cory took on his best I'm your older and wiser teacher voice. "Look, Bud... kid. This Harris, she's an odd one. Flies below just about everyone's radar, you know? Nobody really knows her, at least no one that can still talk about it, if you get my drift."

Alejandro frowned. "She's a hunter?"

"Well, let's just say, no one would be too sad to see her taken down a peg or two." There was a slight pause. "You know, like what Redford and Newman did to Duvall in that movie."

Alejandro thought this over. When you thought of it that way, it seemed almost noble, not a scam, but a duty. "Okay, Cory. I'm in. I'll pick you up at the airport at 7:00."

After saying good-bye, Alejandro closed and pocketed his phone, and returned to the meeting. If they hurried, he and Tricia could still get back on schedule. He didn't even notice that he returned a waiter's smiled greeting with a flick of his nose.


	15. Chapter 15

_First, let me apologize well beyond profusely for the unconscionable delay in posting this chapter. Real life issues, health problems, and (gasp) plain old writer's block conspired to keep me from writing it for months. Let me assure you that we have lots of other chapters already written and nearly ready to post - this one was simply a problem because we lost a writer and the original post had to be completely rewritten. Thanks for anyone still reading for your unbelievable patience and loyalty! -- Bladelover  
_

ooOooOoo

Colin and Louis left the Oz house in a state of freshness usually associated with the start of the day rather than near-afternoon. Louis had showered after his morning run and looked camera-ready in his crisp blue polo shirt, gray microsuede jacket, and khakis. Colin was free of oil and driveway grime, but in his faded black hoodie and blue jeans, he probably looked like the guy hired to photograph the good-looking stylish dude.

Didn't matter to him. They'd always had radically different styles, but usually saw eye-to-eye on the important stuff.

Like cars.

"So?" He stood beside the Mustang, which glimmered in the sunlight from a recent waxing. He loved showing off the restoration he was gradually performing (as quickly as he could afford; original parts were not cheap), and had been looking forward to letting Louis drool over it.

"Hey, looks pretty good."

Huh. Maybe they drooled drier up in Seattle. "Yeah, been doin' a lot of work on it. When I can, you know."

"Yeah, I wish I had more time for stuff like this myself, but with work…" Louis stopped looking at the car and looked more intently at Colin. "So, guess you've had time to catch up on stuff like that since you went on leave?"

"Keepin' busy." Apparently Louis wasn't up for a drooling over the Mustang yet. Maybe a nice little ride would prime that pump. "C'mon, let's get coffee."

"We could take my car."

Colin laughed. "Right." He had the door opened and his butt hovering in the black bucket seat when he heard the chirp of the remote unlocking device from Louis' vehicle a few feet away. Apparently, he'd been serious. Who knew? "Um, thanks, but I just changed the oil. Be good to take 'er out and make sure everything's cool."

"No problem." Louis aimed his remote and re-locked his car, then unceremoniously got into the passenger seat beside him.

Colin started the car, smiling a little as the engine woke up with a roar. He glanced at Louis – his crunchy electric car sure couldn't sound like that – but his pal was busy adjusting the seat to accommodate his height and fastening the seat belt. With a sigh, Colin pulled out of the driveway and headed into the street.

"Everything okay?" Louis asked.

Colin glanced toward the passenger seat in surprise. "Huh?" He quickly brought his attention back to the road. Whoever had designed Quiet Springs had apparently been aiming for realism, rendering the streets of the subdivision like so many meandering streams. You couldn't take your eyes away from the windshield for a full second, unless you didn't mind the prospect of giving an unexpected ride to a pedestrian, her yorki, and her open cell phone on the hood of your car. "Yeah. Why?"

"You just seemed a little put out."

Colin opened his mouth to protest that he emphatically was not "put out"—that in fact, he was pretty sure there would never be a time that he'd describe himself as being "put out"—and said instead, "I just can't believe you didn't want to ride in my car." Damn. That was a pretty sucky example of a protest.

Louis just laughed. "I never said I didn't want to ride in your car. I just offered to drive."

"Dude, this is a '68 Mustang."

"I know."

"A 1968 Mustang fastback, nearly restored to mint condition."

"I can see that. It's very nice."

_Nice!_ This gross understatement called for a vigorous slap upside the head, but Colin had to negotiate a winding turn at that moment, and the transgression went unpunished. He had to content himself with shaking his head in disgust. "But you wanted me to ride in your toy car."

"My 'toy car' happens to be an SUV."

Now it was Colin's turn to snort. "A Ford Escape is _not_ an SUV. It's a glorified go-cart in SUV clothing."

"It's a state-of-the-art hybrid. It's good for the environment."

"Whatever."

Louis shrugged, unfazed. "Where I come from, that kind of thing matters."

"You come from _here._"

"You know what I mean."

Colin let that hang in the air a good few seconds. He wasn't really sure what Louis did mean. Three years living and working in Los Angeles had certainly brought on a lot of changes in Colin, most of them good, some bordering on great, but he still felt like he was "home" when he came back to Seacouver, and that was almost entirely because the people who had made him feel like he'd mattered while growing up were either still here, or still considered this place "home."

The little time he'd spent around Louis since he'd arrived yesterday didn't really qualify Colin to make a judgment, but given that they'd gradually lost contact over the past two years and the fact that Louis rarely came back despite his living fairly close to Seacouver, Colin strongly suspected that his childhood pal now felt a lot more comfortable back in Seattle, where his career and his current social circle resided. Colin knew he didn't really have a right to expect them to just pick up where they'd left off, to be as easy with each other as they'd once been, but it was downright freaky to feel like they might be closer to strangers than friends at this moment.

And now that they'd finally gotten a chance to be in the same place for a couple of days, the idea that Louis might be counting the hours till he could get back to his "real" life carried a sting, as though Colin had lost something important to him a long time ago but was just now finding out about it.

"So… you wanna talk?" Louis said.

Colin frowned. "Sure. 'Bout what?"

"Well, you've been on leave for a while now."

With relief, Colin steered the Mustang through the exit of Quiet Springs subdivision. "Finally! So, where to? The Groundskeeper?"

"When I came in town, I saw there's a Starbucks now three blocks from here. Let's just go there."

"_Starbucks!_ You gotta be kidding me."

"It's three blocks away, compared to _three miles._"

"Well, the distance from home never used to bother you."

"It's on the campus, and I was already there most of the time. Besides, distance from home was a selling point in those days."

Colin relaxed a little as both men snickered at unstated but vivid shared memories of high school and college antics that would never, ever find their way to the ears of the Oz parents, if there truly was any kind of God. "C'mon. You can get the Starbucks experience anywhere in the country these days. Maybe the world. But how often do you find a place like The Groundskeeper?"

"Maybe in certain third world countries…"

"Oh, it was never _that_ bad."

"The health department almost shut the place down four times the year I graduated."

"The key word there being 'almost.'" Colin kept the friendly arguing and reminiscing going all through the drive toward the campus, right up until he found a parking place on the street just a few doors down from the coffee shop.

Louis took in with obvious amusement the fading overhead sign bearing a now barely distinguishable steaming coffee cup, the peeling peach-colored painted trim around the windows, and the failing neon window fixture declaring The Groundskeeper to be "O EN." "Good to see they're not wasting money on capital improvements."

"That's what I'm sayin'. It's all going into the coffee, and the ambiance."

"Right. Because weak lighting, chipped furniture, and grime are so expensive to maintain."

"Hey, the coffee was always great."

"True."

Once inside, they were obliged to stand still for a few seconds to let their eyes adjust. "Did I say 'weak lighting?' I should have said 'nonexistent.'"

Colin was already moving further into the dark shop. "C'mon, let's feel around for an empty table."

"Maybe we'll find Jimmy Hoffa while we're at it."

"Nah, dead men drink no coffee." Now standing at the counter, Colin gazed up at the menu board. He was disappointed to note that the mottled old chalkboard had been replaced by a moderately more modern board with professionally printed lettering, but other than that, everything was pretty much as he remembered it. The countertop was even the same chipped peach-colored faux marble.

"Hey, guys. What can I get you two?"

Colin looked down from the board into the eyes of a young woman with chin-length dark hair – no telling what actual color in this light – decorated with artful pale streaks. She wore street clothes of some dark color and a lighter-colored apron, and a name tag that said she was Leesa. The apron covered the interesting parts of her chest, but none of the buttons on the visible portion of her top were actually buttoned, and the point of the "V" that surely was there somewhere was probably a long way from the collar.

He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. "Now, that's a good question," he told her. "Tell me, Leesa – what do you recommend?"

She leaned forward as well, confirming that the point of that "V" was indeed well below "see" level. "I recommend, Fred, that you order before my shift ends in five minutes, or else Darrell will be the one putting the foam in your cup." Behind her, a male barista looked up from wiping a surface behind the counter and nodded.

Colin grinned at her. "My name's not Fred."

"Darrell won't care." She stood up straight and shifted her eyes to Louis. "What about you? You need advice too, or are you ready to order?"

Louis put up a hand in surrender, smiled, and said, "Oh, I'm ready. I'll have a grande cafe mocha latte."

Colin shook his head and twisted to look up at his friend. "Give me a break. You can't just order coffee?"

"That is coffee," Louis said imperturbably. "Although, now that you mention it…" He took a couple of seconds to look at the board some more, then told Leesa, "Tell you what. Make that a tall chai latte, no whipped cream, please."

Colin shook his head. "Hopeless," he muttered.

"I like a man who isn't afraid to expand his horizons," Leesa said, grabbing a tall paper cup and favoring Louis with what Colin would have to classify as a really cute come-hither grin. With obvious reluctance, she turned back to Colin. "Got a handle on your own desires yet, Fred?"

"There's too many to name. But for now, I'll settle for a tall espresso."

"No imagination, but at least it's a decision," she sighed, and left to make the drinks.

They paid Darrell for their orders and moved toward the order pickup area at the end of the counter, Colin looked to his friend. "Did I order that coffee with extra snark?"

"I think it came at no extra charge."

"She's cute."

"Mm-hmm."

"What, you don't think so?"

"I just said I did."

"No, you said, 'mm-hmm,' which is not exactly brimming over with enthusiasm. What's the matter – not up to your famous high standards?"

Louis rolled his eyes. "As opposed to your 'come one, come all' policy?"

"I'm especially proud of the 'come all' part."

"Still addicted to exaggeration, I see. They don't frown on that at the L.A. Times?"

"Hey, what I do on my own time…"

"Here you go," Leesa's voice interrupted. Colin turned to see her holding out a steaming sleeved brown cup.

"Mmm," he sighed, his eyes on hers. "Looks and smells delicious."

Ignoring any and all subtext, she smiled up at Louis. "And here's your chai. Lids and stuff are on that counter over there. Here, you might want a napkin."

"Hey, don't I get a napkin?" Colin pouted.

But Leesa was already turning away, fiddling with the tie on the back of her apron. "There's more on that counter with the lids."

Louis was fitting a lid onto his chai. The napkin she'd given him was folded neatly in the hand steadying the cup.

"She gave you her number, didn't she?"

"Yes," Louis said, keeping his voice, and head, down.

Colin grinned. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to mess with Louis about his appeal to the ladies. Reaching out, he plucked the napkin away and unfolded it to look at the phone number. Even Leesa's handwriting was cute.

"Give that back," Louis hissed, snagging it from Colin's hand, and stuffing it into his pants pocket as he headed toward a corner with a couple of thrift-store armchairs and a rickety round coffee table.

"You're gonna call her?" Colin asked, more than a little surprised.

"Of course not. I don't have time to date women who live in _Seattle_. I'm certainly not going to lead this girl on."

"Then why'd you take back the napkin?"

"Because she gave it to _me,_" Louis sighed, brushing off the seat of a maroon velveteen recliner. Tiny dots Colin had assumed were part of the upholstery pattern danced and were brushed off before the taller man sat. "If she'd wanted _you_ to call her, I'm sure she'd have written a napkin for you. Just because I'm not interested in her doesn't mean I'm going to hand out her number to anyone who asks."

Settling into a threadbare armchair done in a color Colin always thought of as puke green, he frowned in feigned contemplation. "Hmm. This must be what they call, um, what's the word…"

"Decency?"

Colin snapped his fingers. "Chivalry. By the way, that's a historical term. Means it's history now. So, no time to date? Work keeping you too busy, or are you keeping yourself too busy with work?"

Louis drank from his cup, looked appreciative (although how he could, who knew; chai is _tea_, for God's sake!), and nodded. "The job takes up a lot of time, if you're doing it right."

"And you always were a guy who likes to do things right."

"I imagine it's the same for you at The Times." This second mention of the paper by name caught Colin's sharp attention, and the two men locked eyes. "Isn't it?"

"You bet," Colin answered, taking a swig of his espresso. Somehow it wasn't as good as he remembered it. Maybe the shop had a different supplier these days. "I sweat day and night to make sure I get those obituaries just right. Sometimes I work fifty, sixty hours a week on that alone."

"They still have you writing those?"

"Yeah. Once in a while, they throw me a bone. Let me write a column-filler piece from a press release, and then usually they wind up cutting everything but the lead. Real satisfying."

"I thought you said they'd started using you as an investigative reporter."

Colin took another drink. "Well, yeah, but turns out that's not exactly a full-time thing. Lots of competition for the investigative stuff. I don't get those assignments as often as I'd like."

He saw Louis look past him with a smile, and Colin turned his head to see Leesa walking by in an unzipped denim jacket. The "V" formed by the eventually buttoned shirt was no longer as low as when it had been camouflaged by the apron, but Colin still found it to be a damn good letter. She waved to Louis, smirked at Colin, and strutted out the door in her hip-hugging jeans. With an appreciative sigh, Colin turned back to his companion and sipped more coffee. "I used to think that the wheel was the greatest invention of all time. Now I understand that stretch denim really holds that title."

"I would have said electricity."

"That's the thing. Stretch jeans have been known to actually _generate_ electrity."

"Please tell me The Times does not ever have you checking facts."

"I can honestly say that they never have, and never will." Standing up, Colin drained the last of his espresso and said, "Guess we should head back."

Louis seemed taken aback briefly, but said, "Okay," and stood as well. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving a tip." Colin had grabbed a fresh napkin, pulled a dollar from his wallet, and was now writing, _Thanks for the great service, Leesa_ and his cell phone number on the napkin. He signed it "Fred," wrapped it around the dollar, and stuffed it into the tip jar.

Louis said nothing about it as they left The Groundskeeper. In fact Louis said nothing the whole time they were walking back to the car, and nothing while they were getting in, and more nothing for about the first mile on their way back to the house.

"All right, what's the problem?" Colin demanded. "You said you weren't going to call her, so I took the initiative. It's not like I used the number she gave you, even though I can still remember it, and—"

"I couldn't care less about that girl, Colin." The voice Louis used was flat and cool. He had his arms folded and kept his eyes forward as he spoke.

"Then what—"

"Just stop. I know the truth, okay?"

"You know The Truth. So, the path to enlightenment runs through Seattle?"

Louis still stared through the windshield. "I gave you opportunity after opportunity to level with me, but you just kept up the charade."

Just like that, Colin's enjoyment of the outing, of the gradual resumption of their easy rapport, went right out the window. He was too proud to let his shoulders sag, but inside he felt wilted, beaten. "How'd you find out?"

Louis' lips tightened and he shook his head in fresh disgust, as though part of him had hoped that he'd somehow be proven wrong. "I tried to call you at The Times about six months ago. They said you hadn't been working there for nearly a year. Did you get fired?"

"No." Colin's initial defensiveness faded quickly. Might as well come entirely clean now. "Well, I was probably about to be, but I quit before it happened." He waited for Louis to ask another question, but when he didn't, Colin continued. "I was so damn bored, Lou. Writing obituaries every day has gotta be worse than actually being dead. But then they started giving me some small assignments here and there, nothing huge, but better than stupid press-release jerk-off stuff, you know?

"And I did well enough that they eventually tagged me to assist one of the big-name investigators on this story he was working on. A big city construction project was way over-budget, and I was helping to follow the paper trail to try to find out why. One of the documents I came across led me to think that one of the more well-connected city council members might be somehow involved. Stanford, the guy I was assisting, told me to blow it off, keep looking, but I was really sure I was onto something. So I kept digging. When Stanford found out, he kicked me off the story, and the city editor buried me back in obits again. I stopped caring about things like morning start times and reasonable lunch breaks, and they seemed to take issue with that."

"How'd you hook up with Modern Times?" Louis asked, still not looking at him.

Colin gaped. He hadn't thought anyone outside of L.A. would have heard of the edgy underground weekly he'd been working for since he'd left The Times. Certainly not his old friend he hadn't spoken to more often than six or seven times in the last two years. "The editor, a guy named—"

"Josh Gold."

"Uh… right. Anyway, a friend of his who works at The Times apparently told him about my incident. The one where I wouldn't stop investigating the councilman after being ordered to. He took me to lunch one day, said I sounded like the kind of reporter he could really use, and offered me a job. I went back to The Times and gave my notice, effective immediately." He frowned at Louis. "How'd you know the editor's name? How do you even know about Modern Times in the first place?"

Shrugging, Louis answered tiredly. "When The Times told me you hadn't worked there in about a year, I Googled your name. Eventually, I found an article you'd written for Modern Times. I went to their website and read all the online back issues from the previous year, then bought a subscription to the paper itself. Since then, I've been following your work for them every week."

Colin cleared his throat uneasily. "Wow. Uh, you know, if MegaSoft doesn't work out for you, you might have a future as a reporter. Or, you know, a stalker. It didn't occur to you to maybe just call me up and—"

"Of course it occurred to me!" Louis had finally turned to look at him, finally lost the flatness to his tone. "But given that the last time we'd talked, you'd told me all about your exciting promotion to investigative reporter for _The Los Angeles Times_ when you hadn't been working there for months, I somehow had the feeling that you wanted the change to be a secret. And actually, I was worried about why you had lied to me. Thought maybe you were in some kind of trouble."

"Trouble? Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe you'd developed a drinking problem, or a drug problem, or a gambling problem…"

Colin couldn't help it; he laughed pretty hard at that. "So basically, you went down the list of popular addictions to figure out what you should be worried about." He'd been feeling kinda bad about the deception, but this… This was so _Louis_. He found himself laughing again.

When it dawned on him that Louis wasn't laughing with him, he forced himself to stop. "Sorry."

"Yeah. Glad I was able to be a source of amusement."

"Oh, come on…"

"No, really, the fact that you find levity in this is very gratifying. I've spent months worried as hell about what was going on with you, trying to figure out what could be so awful that you felt that you couldn't even tell me that you'd changed jobs. Then when Mom told me you'd come home on a prolonged medical leave…" Louis rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Anyway, you can stop the pretense now. At least with me. That must come as a relief."

Okay, so it was back to feeling bad again. The more Colin thought about how Louis must have felt when he found out about all this, the more like a jerk he felt. The thing to do now would be to first try to explain why he hadn't told his best friend what was going on, and then apologize.

"Lou, I'm sorry."

Or maybe just skip to item two.

He made the turn into the entrance to Quiet Springs. "I was an asshole to lie to you, okay? I should have just told you the truth from the start, I know that. Somehow, I just didn't, and then I couldn't seem to find a way to come out with it later on, and then… I'm just really, really sorry, man."

The Mustang purred into the Oz driveway, and Colin reluctantly cut the engine. "Really, really sorry," he repeated. He glanced at Louis hopefully. He wondered if he needed to add another "really."

Louis was looking at him warily. "If you're thinking of trying to hug me, think again."

"Oh, thank God. So, we're good?"

There was an iffy moment during which Louis heaved a sigh. Then, with a slight smirk, he inclined his head toward the house. "I'm gonna get some lunch. You hungry?"

"Always. You oughta know that by now."

"I was asking on the off-chance that your metabolism had matured."

"Maturity is a dirty word, dude." Colin yanked the key from the ignition, tossed them into the air and caught them, and opened the door to leave the car, grinning.


	16. Chapter 16

_This chapter was contributed by Bladelover  
_

ooOooOoo

Bambi stood at the kitchen counter looking very much like a little girl waiting for the school bus for the very first time. A school bus full of flesh-eating monsters. Driven by a pedophile. On its way to a David Spade film festival.

She looked at her mother with obvious trepidation. "Really, Mom – isn't there something else you'd like me to do? Like, maybe, go out for supplies or something?"

"I already told you, I have everything we need," Ruth said briskly, sorting the items they needed for their project. If she noticed her daughter's discomfort, she hid it beautifully. Her mother did everything beautifully.

Bambi sighed quietly. This was not how she'd planned to spend her afternoon off. Even though she'd not been looking forward to this party her mother insisted she attend, she'd at least had a strategy for making it less stressful – a nice relaxing bubble bath at her apartment, a soothing glass of wine, some of that honeysuckle body lotion… all over. Then she would have dressed at her leisure in her new red Capri pants with the sleeveless red and white top, swept up her hair in a casual knot, and arrived at the party feeling put-together and ready for anything.

Instead, she was standing in her mother's kitchen, staring at celery stalks, onions, cans of chunk ham and crushed pineapple, bags of pecans, and a large jar of mayonnaise. These were the building blocks of her mother's favorite finger sandwiches.

She knew from experience that this would end in disaster. She'd never once managed to survive these mother-daughter kitchen-based events without one. Things like that just didn't change; at least, not for her.

There was but one avenue of safety: chopping the pecans. Using the nut-chopping doohickey was the one task she could perform that would be beyond reproach. Yes, if she were to be forced to participate in this endeavor, then she would make the pecan-chopping last allllll afternoon. Reaching for a bag of pecans she began, "Well, I'll just start with ch-" Her hand froze in midair and her voice halted with it. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…

"You bought _chopped_ pecans this time?"

"Yes, they were on sale, so it just made sense. But you can start chopping up the veggies. Here, start with the celery, please."

Like a woman marching to the gallows, Bambi slowly pulled the stalks toward her and reluctantly picked up the knife. Positioning the first stalk, she prepared to begin chopping. "Bambi, they need to be washed first, sweetie." Right, forgot the washing. Obediently, Bambi took the stalks to the sink and began carefully washing them.

"You did wash your hands first, too, didn't you, dear? You work with animals, after all."

Naturally her mother wouldn't assume Bambi was sufficiently competent to make sure her hands were free of poop, urine, fleas, cat hair, and dog stink. "Yes, I washed my hands several times after work, Mom. And again as soon as I got here." When her mother said nothing, Bambi sighed and washed her hands yet again before rinsing the celery. Good thing Bambi hadn't decided to become a surgeon – she could totally see Ruth rushing in, bumping the scrub nurse out of the way, and taking over the act of scrubbing her daughter's hands before she entered the O.R. She kept this line of thought to herself, however. The last thing she needed was a discussion about her choice of veterinary medicine over human, and especially not one that led to much sighing over her failure to finish even two years of study.

Returning to her place at the counter, she waited briefly for a sign that her celery-washing technique hadn't been satisfactory, but getting none, she began to chop, nervously at first, but soon falling into a rhythm. It was going fairly well, and she began to gain confidence. You know, maybe she really was getting the hang of –

"Bambi, honey, slow down. You're going to chop your finger off."

Tensing up again, Bambi slowed her chopping. Dismemberment was something to be avoided in food preparation. All the best cookbooks said so, she was sure.

Beside her, Ruth was opening the cans and dumping the contents into a very large bowl. Glancing at the bits of celery, she remonstrated, "Oh, Bambi, no, sweetie! Those are just a smidge too large. Chop them up a little finer, please."

Finer, sure thing. What could be finer than chopping celery for her mother, while retaining all ten of her God-given manual appendages? Bambi proceeded to re-chop her already-chopped pile into smaller bits. When that was finished, she started in on the rest of the stalks, concentrating on making the new bits just as fine.

Having mixed the ham and crushed pineapple together in the bowl, Ruth grabbed a bag of pecans and poured them in. "Next, you can chop up that onion. It… good Lord, are you still working on that celery? Honey, we have a lot of these to make. You're going to have to work faster."

"Sorry." Bambi's voice was as breathless as though she'd been running. Running for her life. From a stalker. A celery stalker, ha ha. She began to hurry her chopping.

"What are you planning to wear tonight?" her mother asked casually. Bambi opened her mouth to describe the new red Capris, but Ruth was already continuing. "Remember the party the Stephenses threw last summer for Laura when she graduated from law school? She looked so darling in that little outfit she had on. Of course, she looks darling in anything, always did. And her hair was cut in such a cute style, very chic and short. I can't remember a time when that girl ever seemed to have a hair out of place. And smart! Well, you know, to make it through law school, she'd have to be – Bambi! Honey! Oh, my God!"

Shocked back to awareness by her mother's tone of alarm, Bambi looked down to find half of her left hand covered with blood. A good portion of very finely chopped celery was basking in a ghastly red marinade. Panic and horror caused her to jerk reflexively, and blood spattered the untouched onion, the mixture in Ruth's bowl, and Ruth's white cotton top. Ruth grabbed the bloody hand, took one look, and cried out, addressing the ceiling as though calling to God Himself, "Louis! Louis, Bambi's cut her finger off!"

Further horrified by this news, Bambi frantically scanned the countertop for a disembodied digit. Had she mistaken it for a celery stalk and chopped it up? If she had, reattachment was definitely out. She wondered how much harder it would be to smooth on honeysuckle body lotion now.

"Let me see," said Louis in a calm, firm voice, having arrived at the kitchen and immediately taken charge. He took Bambi's bloody hand from Ruth's trembling one and scrutinized it with an air of concerned competence.

"Well, all the fingers are still there," he said, winking at his sister, "but I can't quite see the cut for all the blood." He led her to the sink and ran cold water over her hand, which was finally beginning to hurt like hell.

"Hey, what was the yelling… Shit! What the hell happened here?"

Bambi turned her head to see Colin staring at the bloody scene on the countertop with a look of horror. He'd been a pretty rough-and-tumble kid growing up, and she'd never seen him react this way to blood before. Not only that, but her mom hadn't chastised him for cursing. Dear God. Maybe she'd lost a really large amount of blood! Maybe she was dying! She swayed a little, and Louis tugged her arm firmly to steady her.

"Colin, hand me a paper towel," he said briskly. Bambi saw Colin shake his head slightly as though breaking out of a trance, and he tore off a paper towel square from the dispenser.

Using the towel, Louis dried Bambi's hand. She was surprised to see that the cut was smaller than she'd imagined. As they watched, it was already pumping out more blood, as though it had a production schedule to maintain.

"Looks like you shaved several layers off the side of your knuckle and forefinger," said Louis. There was the sharp sound of something hitting the ceramic-tiled floor, and both Louis and Bambi turned around to see what had happened now.

Colin picked up the cordless phone a very pale Ruth had just dropped. "I don't think we're gonna need 911," he told her gently, snapping into place a piece of the plastic housing that had come loose on impact. He placed the phone back on its base, still looking a little pale himself.

Her eyes were wide and scared as she looked into Colin's. "Are you sure?"

Louis answered immediately, earning a look from Colin that might have conveyed annoyance.  
"Yes, Mom. I'm sure."

"Oh, well… that's… That's good," she said. Clearing her throat, Ruth straightened her clothes and regrouped. The color was coming back to her face. "But I think she should at least go to the emergency room."

"No, no, I don't need the emergency room," Bambi said. She had no intention of spending two or three hours waiting to be seen, only to be told what she already knew. "It's not deep. It just looks that way because it's bleeding so much."

"You're not a doctor," Ruth informed her. "It could be worse than you think."

"Mom, she's right. It's not a deep cut. She doesn't need stitches – just a good bandaging."

"Well, all right, if you think so."

Ruth's unflinching acceptance of Louis's reassurance suddenly infuriated Bambi. _Helloooo,_ she thought. _HE'S not a doctor, either!_ But at least she wouldn't be making a pointless trip to the ER.

"Come on, Bambina," Louis was saying, "let's get you up to the bathroom. We'll see how much of my Boy Scout first aid I can remember."

"I'm guessing all of it," Colin said dryly, "and in excruciating detail. Prob'ly put an EMT to shame." Bambi snorted quietly and the two of them shared a snarky look.

"Yes, you get her all taken care of, dear, and I'll get started cleaning up in here," Ruth said. As Louis wrapped another paper towel around her hand, Bambi looked around at the bright red mess she was leaving behind. That her prediction of disaster had proven one hundred percent accurate failed to give her any sense of triumph. She supposed that scaring one's mother into a mild state of shock and contaminating party food with bio-hazardous material kind of took the fun out of being right.

"I'm really sorry, Mom." If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn it was the voice of an eight-year-old.

"It's all right, sweetie," Ruth said, but her mind was obviously already on how much more she now had to do.

Colin followed the two of them up the stairs to the bathroom. "You know, I've seen some desperate avoidance tactics in my time, Bam, but…"

"Shut up."

"Your throne awaits," Louis said, lowering the toilet lid with a flourish. Bambi dropped onto it sullenly. Already he was applying antibiotic ointment to the cut.

"I mean, I knew you hated to cook, but to resort to self-mutilation…"

"I said, shut up, Colin."

"Hold still," Louis said gently as he began expertly winding gauze around her hand.

"At least I didn't almost faint at the sight of blood."

"Huh?" Colin wore an elaborate look of puzzlement. "I didn't almost faint."

"Tell that to someone who didn't see your face."

"I was just surprised. Never saw anyone give her life in the service of sandwich-making."

"I would've thought you'd seen worse stuff than that, Mr. Big-Time Reporter."

Colin's expression became hard to read as he said cryptically, "Every night."

Bambi started to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, but just then Louis said, "Okay, that should do it. How's it feel? Not too tight, is it?"

She gazed appraisingly at her hand, now neatly trussed up in pristine gauze and thin white tape. Louis really did know his first aid stuff, she had to admit. She held out her hand like a game show spokesmodel. "This should be a stunning accessory to my party outfit," she said glumly.

"Oh, what are you worried about?" Louis teased, putting away the first aid materials and cleaning up what little mess he'd made. "Who's going to notice a bandage on the hand of a pretty girl, anyway?"

Bambi snorted. "Yeah, right, they'll be too bowled over by my beauty to see it. The people at the party will be our neighbors, Louis."

"No, he's right, Bam," Colin said from his perch on the edge of the bathtub. "They'd be more likely to notice if you didn't have a bandage, since they know you and everything."

Bambi desperately wanted to secretly flip him the bird, but Louis was on her right and would make with the disapproval, and her left hand had temporarily lost its wings. She settled for the far more juvenile sticking out of her tongue. Then she sighed. "Guess I should go help Mom with… whatever."

"Good girl," Louis told her, completing his self-portrait of clueless dorkiness by adding a patronizing pat to her shoulder.

"Nah," Colin told her. "She's still cleaning up, and then she's going out to buy more stuff."

Bambi felt herself reddening. "Right. Guess I ruined all the food, didn't I?"

"It was just bad timing," Colin replied seriously. "Now, if this would have been a Halloween party…"

Louis shot him a mild glare before planting a brisk kiss to the top of Bambi's head. "Don't worry about it, sis. Why don't you go on home for a while? Take some Tylenol for the pain and rest up before the party. I'll go help Mom." He left the bathroom and trotted gracefully down the stairs. A local sportswriter had been much parodied years ago because he was unable to resist overusing the term "poetry in motion" to describe her older brother's athletic exploits, but while his every movement might not qualify as poetry, it never really sank below the level of economic but elegant prose, either.

Next to him, Bambi felt like a collection of sentence fragments. Non-sequitur sentence fragments. With no punctuation and bad spelling.

Colin threw an arm around Bambi's shoulders as they, too, descended the stairs at a less enthusiastic pace.

"You know you try too hard," he said simply.

"Because I never get it right."

"Because you try too hard."

"No, because I'm me." Colin was sweet, but he really didn't get what it was like to be Bambi. Heck, even she didn't understand it. Opening the front door, she said, "Well, see you tonight at my next performance."

"Bam?" She turned and looked expectantly. "You know, 'finger sandwiches' is just a name. You're not really supposed to put actual fingers…"

Bambi's right hand demonstrated its fluent bird-flipping skill.


	17. Chapter 17

_This chapter submitted by Zalyka and SouthernBreeze_

_oo00oo00oo00oo_

The tires of a speeding black Jaguar convertible squealed and kicked up gravel as the vehicle pulled into the driveway of Williams Memorial Medical Park and stopped in a parking space just short of hitting the curb.

Killing the engine and stepping out of the car, Alexandra straightened the lightweight tan trench coat she wore over a black leather miniskirt and purple spaghetti strap tank top. She looked back towards the parking lot entrance to check the directory before grabbing a small purse off the back seat and marching down the sidewalk.

Pushing open the door of 2D, Alex found herself in an empty waiting area. The room was silent except for the sound of the bubbling filter of an aquarium full of tropical fish. Walking over to a glass partition on the wall opposite her, she found the seat behind the window empty and a technicolor screensaver dancing across the computer monitor. Opening the door by the partition she found a short but empty hallway decorated with more of the same type of abstract paintings lining the waiting room. "Hello? Is anyone here?" she called, silently hoping no one would answer.

"Come in," a male voice replied. "Second door on the left."

Sighing, she walked into the hallway and found the office door slightly ajar. Stepping into the office, she found herself facing a wall of windows with houseplants sitting under them in terra cotta pots. To the right was a brown leather couch with tasseled pillows resting on it and an upholstered straight back armchair facing the couch. The wall to her left was lined with tall oak bookshelves. In front of the bookshelves stood a large desk neatly arranged with picture frames, a lamp, clock, pencil holder, telephone, and several assorted papers and books. Behind the desk sat a man watching her with clear blue eyes. "You look like a psychologist," she said to him, crossing her arms.

"Um, thank you, I suppose. I'm Dr. Oz... and you are?"

"I'm Alex."

"Alexandra Margery?"

"Yes. I have an appointment with you for 1:00."

Donald glanced at his open appointment book and then at the digital clock on his desk just as the digits changed from 1:14 to 1:15. Deciding not to say anything about the new patient's timing, he got up and stepped around his desk to shake her hand. "It is nice to finally meet you in person."

"Yeah, well, the courts heard that I had called in sick for the last few sessions and started pestering me about it. Probably because they have nothing better to do with their time, as usual."

"Either way, I am glad to see that you are starting to keep your appointments. It is the only way to make any progress." Motioning to the couch in the corner Donald said, "Please, have a seat."

"Thanks." Alex walked over to the other side of the office, but instead of taking the couch, she sat down on the armchair next to it. She slid her coat off her shoulders and settled in.

Feeling awkward but still not wanting to say much until he learned more about this new patient, Donald sat down on the couch. "Perhaps you could tell me how your sessions were going with Dr. Norman before your transfer."

"In a word... pointless. It was all talking about what my life is like, and what appropriate behaviors are, and controlling anger and impulses. _A lot_ of talk about the difference between what is in movies and what is real life. So I would like to know what you are going to do differently."

"Basically I'm hoping to help you realize that breaking the law is unacceptable behavior in our society, and to teach you some more positive ways to deal with any stressors you may encounter in the future."

"Same thing as the other guy," she said with a derisive snort, slouching in the chair. "He just didn't understand me. It's not like I ever expected him to anyway. And I don't think you will either."

"But I at least want to try to understand you."

"Hmph."

"Let's try a slightly different topic for now. How about reviewing the reason why you are here?"

"You already know why I'm here. I'm sure it's in one of those files over there," Alex told him, gesturing back towards the papers on Donald's desk.

"Yes but I would like to hear it from you... to get your perspective."

"Okay." She paused for a moment to think. "Here's how it went. A while back I went to the monster movie marathon at the Cineplex and had a few too many drinks afterward. Then while I was still very drunk, I became convinced that I was a vampire and tried to order blood from Hailey's Café. Then I bit the manager and got arrested for assault and a whole bunch of other little technical things. I had the choice of jail time or psychotherapy. And I _thought_ therapy would be a better choice."

"So what do you think the judge hoped you would accomplish through therapy? Why you were given the option?"

"Because he thinks I'm crazy. My previous records probably didn't help."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"For example, there was this one other time I had been arrested for larceny... Okay, you know those cars they park inside the shopping malls to advertise a company or for a sweepstakes thing? I was shopping one day and the thought occurred to me that it would be interesting to steal one… you know, just for the hell of it. But I couldn't figure out how to get it out of the mall, so one night I broke in and tried to disassemble it and take it out piece by piece. It would have worked eventually, but I got caught, since apparently someone carrying car parts out of the mall in the middle of the night looks suspicious, so the police showed up... They actually thought it was pretty funny."

Doing an excellent job of hiding his own amusement at the notion of someone stealing an entire car in pieces, Donald smiled tolerantly and said, "Going back to our original discussion, you started therapy with Dr. Norman, and when he left on 'sabbatical' you felt that you didn't need to attend sessions anymore, because he didn't understand you and the therapy wasn't making any progress?"

"Yes, so don't take it personally that I didn't show up for the other sessions you had planned, but the only reason I'm here is so I don't end up with that jail time." Looking down at her watch, Alex said, "I think we can stop here for today. You don't mind if I leave a few minutes early, do you?"

Checking his own watch and thinking a bit more free time to sort out his schedule for the next day would be useful, Donald replied, "No, that's fine, but I expect to see you at 1:00 sharp next week, okay?"

Nodding, Alex let herself out of Donald's office and walked back to the parking lot. On the way to her car, she suddenly shook her head and looked up from fishing through her purse for her car keys. Seeing a small green convertible entering the parking lot, she quickly jumped behind a large flowering rhododendron to hide.

OO00OO00OO00

_I can't get no... sat-is-faction,  
I can't get no... girl with ac-tion.  
'cause I try and I try and I try and I try.  
I can't get no, I can't get no..._

With the speakers blaring at full volume, Miranda sang along as she downshifted the MGB to turn into the entrance of the medical park….this time finding it without difficulty. She glanced at the clock on the dash, and noted that it was 1:40. Not bad. It had only taken an extra 10 minutes to pick up the doc's triple-decker cheeseburger with onion rings and cherry cola from Bob's Burgerama…which was, fortunately, right across the street from Hannah's Healthy Kitchen where she had had chicken salad on pita with alfalfa sprouts and olive oil, along with a cup of green tea on the side. She might be immortal, but it didn't hurt to eat healthy, she reasoned.

_When I'm ridin' round the world  
And I'm doin' this and I'm signing that  
And I'm tryin' to make some girl  
Who tells me baby better come back later next week  
'cause you see I'm on a losing streak.  
I can't get no, oh no no no.  
Hey hey hey, that's what I say._

Just before negotiating the turn into the parking lot, she reached over and switched off the radio with a wistful little smirk. "Sorry, Mick," she sighed aloud, "I must have been insane."

Rounding the curve, the smirk suddenly vanished from her face as she felt the telltale buzz of another immortal. With every sense on instant alert, she cast her eyes around the lot. In front of the podiatrist's office, an older couple was getting in their car, but she doubted the buzz was coming from either of them. On the other side of the lot an obviously pregnant woman was herding three children into the orthodontist's office. Definitely not her. Otherwise, no one was in sight.

Slowly pulling into the same space she had used earlier, she turned the car's motor off and debated what to do. The buzz remained strong, so she knew she was being watched. Was he in one of the parked cars nearby? Or was he in the bushes right by the sidewalk, waiting to ambush her on her way in? Would he challenge her right here in broad daylight?

She doubted a positive answer to that last question, but for the first time that day, she cursed the blueness of the sky for not giving her a good excuse to wear her long coat into the office. She reached into the space behind the seats to grab it anyway. If Dr. Oz asked, she'd just tell him that there might be rain that evening--a safe bet in Seacouver--and she wanted to be prepared.

Draping the coat, and its contents, strategically over one arm, she grabbed the bag containing Donald's future heart attack, and stepped out of her car. She didn't go into the office, however, before assuming a slightly aggressive posture and casting one last steely eyed look around the lot. "C'mon, sugar," she whispered to the unseen source of the buzz, "whoever you are, mess with me...I'll show you what a sweet southern belle can do with a big ol' sword and an attitude."

Still seeing no one who might be the source of the buzz, she stepped up onto the sidewalk and strode with confident purpose to the door of 2D, pushed it open, and entered the office. Once inside, she leaned against the door for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief before looking out the window. All she saw, however, was a sleek, black Jaguar--her dream car, she noted with a pang--speeding out of the lot.


	18. Chapter 18

_This post contributed by Historygirl with a little assistance from Bladelover. _

ooOooOoo

"So," Kim popped another grape into her mouth, " Portland is the last stop on the tour?" She folded up one leg underneath her and rested her arm along the top of the couch, clearly not concerned about her hiking boot being on the upholstery.

Gary set his bottled water down before answering. "Nah, we have a three week break, then we're hitting LA. Two nights at the Whisky, and Evan, our manager, is trying to get us on Leno."

"Leno? Really? That's big time, kid. Long way from jamming in the basement saying 'Party on, Wayne!'"

"Party on, Garth!" Gary fired back without thinking, then the two friends grinned.

Kim lounged even more comfortably on the couch so thoughtfully provided for the musicians by the Crystal Ballroom, downtown live music hotspot. Holding her grapes in one hand, she fished a miniature tape recorder out with the other. "So, how does a guy from the suburbs of Seacouver, who is _supposed to be_ studying engineering at MIT, end up becoming the hot new keyboardist for cutting edge alterna-rock band 'Breakfast at Phil's'?"

"Um, Kimmie?"

"Yeah?"

"Tape recorder?"

"Interview?"

"For Sports Illustrated? Me?"

"Yeah, SI … I'm not exactly working for them anymore." Kim's shifting sent her tape recorder crashing to the floor.

"Gee, with questions like that? What a shock." Gary grabbed the little machine from where it had slid against his foot, trying to inspect it for damage. Kim surged to her feet and tried to take it back, and he traded the inspection for teasing, holding it this way and that, switching from one hand to the other, keeping the recorder out of her reach.

"Give it to me," she demanded reflexively, but she was obviously enjoying this game as much as he was. "And it wasn't my questions that caused the problem, it was my ass … and maybe my mouth." Kim eyed Gary, judging the distance to her target.

Gary eased out of his chair, hands held loosely at his sides. "Please tell me it wasn't as perverted as that sounds."

"Okay, it wasn't as perverted as that sounds." Kim's feet hit the ground and her eyes sparkled as Gary gave her a dirty look. "No, really, it wasn't. You know I was attached to the Trail Blazers, right?" Gary nodded, watching Kim rise from the couch. "Well, one of their front office guys decided he wanted to be attached to me."

"He liked your ass?" Gary backed away as Kim stepped forward.

"He liked my ass." A quick feint left was followed by a slide right and a short laugh from Gary. "He didn't like my arm bar takedown, or my punch to his sternum," Kim stopped moving as Gary did, "or my very vocal questioning of his sexual prowess and penis size."

"You didn't?"

"I did."

"In front of other people?"

"In front of the whole team." Kim grinned and slipped closer to her prey. "Is it my fault he decided to jump me in the steam room at the end of practice?"

Gary danced backward around his chair. "So, how many's that now? Three? Four?"

"Front office guys?"

"Jobs. Lost jobs."

"Three!" The indignation was ruined somewhat by Kim tripping over the chair Gary thrust at her. "The Herald let me go when I told Mrs. Davis that her daughter's wedding dress was the most horrendous fashion travesty I'd ever seen. Of course, I didn't know she was the mother of the bride, but that didn't really seem to matter, did it?"

"Insulting the bride is never a good idea. Even I know that." Gary dangled the tape recorder.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Kim rocked back on her heels, refusing to take the bait. "The Tribune one wasn't my fault though."

"You convinced the layout guy to print pictures of the paper's publisher soliciting a teen prostitute! You got half the newsroom fired!"

"Not my fault the old man liked young girls," Kim said smugly as she rounded the chair.

"You never told me exactly how you got the guy to print those pictures, you know."

"What can I say? My ass is very popular. Anyway, that's the past. I'm freelancing now, and I'll need my tape recorder to do this incredible, in-depth interview with the keyboardist of college rock's new darlings."

Gary darted away, running behind the table with the food. "Oh, I don't think so."

Kim stalked slowly after him. "This is payback for all those games of keep away Bambi and I played with your Power Rangers, isn't it?"

"Yup," Gary agreed, looking smug until Kim lunged.

Kim felt the pain rip through her skull again, just as she grabbed Gary's sleeve. Staggering, she threw her arm around his neck to keep her balance. "Damn, I am _never_ gonna get used to that," she muttered as she tightened her grip.

"You okay? Get used to what?" Gary asked, but Kim's reply was cut short by the door bursting open to reveal a huge man, with a huge sword.

"Oh, crap!" Kim cried, trying to drag Gary away from the big immortal bearing down on them, but he was struggling. "Don't fight me, kid!"

"No. Wait. It's –"

"Shut up and move!" Kim barked in his ear, tugging desperately at Gary's shoulder.

"Don't do it." The command froze Kim and Gary in their tracks long enough for the door to be closed. "Okay lady, that's the only way outta this room. I don't know what your plan is, but you're gonna hafta go through me to get outta here."

Kim ran her gaze over the man before her; thick, wavy brown hair; brown eyes (not wavy at all); big muscles; easily six-foot-three… he would be her type if he wasn't threatening to take her head. She sighed; wasn't that always the way? "You got the wrong girl, big guy. I don't have a plan. Well, except for the kid, here."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. C'mon, kid. It's all right now. Move away from her."

Confused and staring at the sword, Gary didn't budge, and the brown eyes hardened as the big guy moved closer to Kim and Gary. "All right, lady, he served his purpose. I took the bait; let him go."

"Bait? Purpose?" Kim pulled Gary harder, trying to shove him behind her. "No way am I letting him go anywhere near you."

"Either you let the kid go, or you won't even have time to draw your sword." The threat in those words was all too real, and it had Kim shoving frantically at Gary. Her heart seemed to stop as she felt him slip from her grasp to step between her and the sword-wielding maniac.

"Don't!" Kim yelled, pushing Gary out of the way, falling to her knees before the other immortal. "Let him go, please. I don't even have a sword with me. If you promise not to hurt him I'll go with you and you can take my head, easy as pie. Okay?"

"Kimmie?" Gary's voice sounded small and confused.

"Don't sweat it kid." Kim tucked her hands into her armpits to hide the shaking. "This is way easier than me trying to explain you getting turned into a human _shish kebob_ to your mom."

"Whoa, you _know_ her?" The sword in front of Kim wavered with the question.

"Um, yeah." Gary rose and walked over to the immobile pair. "Marco, this is my friend Kimmie I was telling you about. Kimmie, this is Marco Marconi, roadie for the band and my self-appointed protector," Gary said, glancing at Marco's sword, "although I never thought he took it this seriously."

"Pleased to meet you," Kim said automatically as she rose to her feet.

"Same here," Marco replied. Both seemed to realize the absurdity of the situation at the same time as Gary, and nervous laughter filled the room. "So, um, I guess we needta talk?" Marco asked.

"Yup," Gary chuffed as Kim nodded. "But first," he continued, "I think I need to pass out."

ooOooOoo

Gary opened his eyes slowly, some instinct in the back of his brain telling him to stay down as long as he could. A furtive glance confirmed his instinct when he saw Marco, Kimmie, and that incredibly huge sword sitting across from him.

"Kid?" The dirty looks thrown by his two friends matched their unison in speaking and the instinct in Gary's brain gained a voice. _So much for the plan, huh junior? Still figure the two of them will hook up and leave you alone to play the groupie field?_ The fact that the voice sounded a lot like his older brother, Louis, made Gary cringe.

"Whoa, kid, the head okay? You didn't hit it when you fainted, didja?"

"Passed out," Gary mumbled. He couldn't believe he'd actually done that. He'd thought he was joking when he said it.

Kimmie leaned forward, hand reaching out to stroke the fine blond hair from Gary's forehead. "What? What did you say, we couldn't hear you."

"I said I passed out. I didn't faint." The Louis voice in Gary's head spoke up again. _Like that time you "passed out" from fear when that cat jumped on your head while you were out for Halloween?_ "I was in first grade, it wasn't my fault!" Gary looked up to see Marco evaluating him carefully.

"Jenkins' cat?" Kimmie at least looked sympathetic.

"Yeah."

"Your mom's voice? Or Louis?"

"Louis."

"Tell him to leave other people's heads alone. I'm sure he has enough trouble with his own." Kimmie's voice was drier than the Mojave as she mentioned Louis.

Gary hid his grin. "Still ticked that he shot you down back in high school?"

"Whaddaya think?" Kimmie's grin spread, and Gary let his peek out. "There he was fooling around with cheerleaders when he coulda had a girl with substance."

"Not to mention substances."

"And yet, you mention them."

"You two done?" Gary felt his grin slip as he turned to look directly at Marco.

"Um, yeah, I guess." The words chased the flush that spread over Gary's face.

"We were remembering old times." Gary could hear the implied 'times before _you_ came around' in Kimmie's voice and rushed to cut off the impending argument.

"Yeah, well, we have other things to talk about, don't we?" Gary gave the sword a quick glance, cleared his throat, and plunged in. "So, swords, _shish kebobs_, taking heads? Who wants to start?" Hearing his mother's voice come out of his mouth, Gary realized his tactical error. Before his eyes, Marco and Kimmie seemed to close ranks against him, just as he and Bambi and Kimmie or Colin and Louis had done for years. Laying his head back down, he felt a moment of sympathy for his mom.

ooOoo

Kim watched Gary close his eyes and threw a panicked look at Marco. She'd risked her head quite readily and then taken Gary's word that the guy was okay, but she still worried that he'd reveal something to the kid that would change the way Gary looked at her. They had to come up with something, and she tried to convey that with her eyes. Based on the confused look she received back, her eyes didn't speak roadie, so, taking a deep breath, she leaped.

"Taking heads? Um, dunno, I think you lost me there, kid." Even as the words pierced the silence of the room, Kim knew that wasn't going to do it. And she quickly realized that while her eyes might not speak roadie, Marco's certainly spoke stupid, embarrassed, bad liar. "What?" she snapped at the man. "You got something better?"

"Anything's gotta be better than that." Kim decided that dripping scorn was not a good look for Marco the Roadie.

"Fine, you decide what to tell him then, Mr. Big Sword to the Rescue!"

"I will."

"So, go ahead, tell him." Kim waved her hand gracelessly. "Wait! What are you gonna tell him?"

As Marco opened his mouth to answer her, words came from the couch. "The truth."

Staring at Gary, who still hadn't opened his eyes, Marco and Kim dragged their gazes away at the same time to look at each other. Kim watched Marco shrug as she wondered whether or not to honor Gary's request, and she realized her eyes had learned to speak roadie after all.

"Might as well go with the truth, Red, cuz you ain't got much in the way of a poker face, ya know?"

"Why me?" she said with a truly unattractive whine, and grimaced.

"You, him, both, whatever." Kim watched Gary sit up slowly, rest his head in his hands briefly then fix them both with an unwavering gaze. "I don't care who tells me, but I wanna know the truth." As Kim looked over to Marco again, she could have sworn Doc Oz was in the room.

ooOoo

Marco sat back and slid his sword further under his chair. "So, any questions?"

"Lemme see if I got this straight." Marco thought the kid looked a little pale, but not too bad considering. "Immortal, gonna live forever if you don't lose your heads, swordfights to the death, and everything I ever thought I knew about you and Kimmie is wrong. Did I miss anything? No? Okay then, I'm just gonna –"

"Pass out?"

Marco glared at the red headed immortal beside him, then ignored the looks she was sending back.

"No, no, not gonna pass out this time; hate to give Louis any more ammunition." Gary staggered a bit as he stood and moved toward the bathroom. Marco started to rise to help him, but stopped at the feel of a hand on his arm. Gary just kept shuffling on. "I'm good, I'm good. Just need a couple of minutes. Talk amongst yourselves."

The door to the small bathroom closed, and Marco turned his head to gaze down at the hand still on his arm. Then he looked up at the worried face gazing after Gary. Biting back a caustic comment about that not being his sword arm, he decided to take Gary's advice and try to have a conversation.

"So, I … ah … never got a chance to ask why you were really here. Ya know, cuz you weren't here for me." Wondering when, exactly, all his intelligence had decided to vacate his body, Marco shook his head and tried again. "I mean, my name is Marco Marconi, pleased to meet you. How long have you known the kid?"

"Kim Farrell, nice to meet you too, all things considered." She raised her hand to shake his outstretched one, and Marco missed the warmth of her skin on his arm. "I've known Gary almost all his life …" Her voice trailed off as she turned her head back toward the closed door. "Do you really think he's gonna be okay?"

"You know him, he's a good kid, smart, strong. He'll handle it." Marco reached out and touched Kim's shoulder to draw her attention back to him. "Anyway, he'll be home tomorrow. His folks'll be there for him."

Kim lurched out of the chair, and Marco let his hand drop. "Home? Seacouver?"

Marco tried to ignore the way his hand wanted to keep reaching out to this young woman, young _immortal_, young _unknown_ immortal, he reminded himself. "Uh, yeah, Seacouver," he agreed, giving himself a mental shake. "I figured it might be a good idea to get him away from the groupies for a while, ya know?"

"Groupies? You mean the little blonde bimbettes? They seemed harmless."

"Lady, you don't know the half of it."

ooOoo

Gary cautiously opened the door, part of him hoping that he'd see Kimmie eating fruit, wondering if he fell asleep in there, another part of him, sounding _nothing_ like Louis, convinced he'd see one of his friends lying on the floor one head shorter than when he left. What he really saw was Kimmie, face shocked as she yelled out, "Sixteen?"

"Wait, it gets better." Marco was leaning forward, face serious under his smile. "Not only was the girl sixteen years old, she was _number_ sixteen …" Gary watched Marco pause for dramatic effect, then continue, "the sixteenth girl I hadda drag outta the bus that week."

"Aren't you tired of that story yet?" Gary was amazed at how normal his voice sounded. Not bad, considering it was four o'clock in the morning and his whole world had changed.

"Kid!" This time the joint speaking didn't get dirty looks, it got warm smiles, and Gary thought it might be time to get nervous.

"Exchanging embarrassing Gary stories already? Did you tell him about the cat, Kimmie?" The lively tone of the words was undermined when Gary stumbled coming around the couch. "I'm okay," he insisted as the others rose to help him, "just tired."

"We should maybe get some sleep," Marco suggested as Gary fidgeted under his gaze. "We got a long drive tomorrow."

"Four hours, not so bad," Kimmie stated without missing a beat.

"Oh, man," Gary moaned, "he told you his idea."

"Yep, and I think it's a good one. You know your mom misses you." Gary leaned into the arm Kimmie wrapped around him.

"Yeah, and she thinks I'm still at MIT. Did you forget that part?"

"Nope. That's the other reason you gotta go home, kid. They deserve to know it from you, not from some article in the paper." The look Marco gave Kimmie as he said that wasn't easy to read, and Gary wondered what else the two had discussed while he'd been having his quiet breakdown in the bathroom. "So, can we drop ya somewhere, Red?"

Gary watched Kimmie squirm a little, but he was too tired to try to puzzle out why. "Nah, I'm good. Meet you guys back here at three tomorrow?"

"That'd be good." Marco started steering Gary toward the door as they spoke.

"Tomorrow? Kimmie? Marco?"

"Red's gonna join us on our trip, kid."

"Thought I might go see your folks, visit, maybe write an article or something."

Gary stopped walking and turned on them both. "All I wanted was _a little time_. Just long enough for _one_, maybe _two_ groupies. Thought maybe she'd distract you long enough so I could finally _get_ some and the guys in the band would stop ragging me. But _no_, you guys have to go and be immortal and have swords and form a coalition and now you're in league against me."

Ignoring the concerned looks, he started walking again. "I'm a freakin' _rock star_ and haven't had five minutes alone with a girl this whole tour. Somebody up there hates me, that's gotta be it."


	19. Chapter 19

_This chapter was contributed by Madison. More chapters completed and ready to follow soon!_

ooOooOoo

"Ok, this was a good idea." Maddy's inner was busy trying to convince her of just that as she took her fifth turn on her brisk walk around the block. "The sun is shining There's a nice breeze blowing. Everything's right with the world." Maddy felt so good she was in grave danger of actually humming. She was completely ignoring that other inner voice. That was the voice that was saying lovely, helpful things like "This was a very bad idea." and "Why did you ever think that you could fit into a normal environment?" She passed her house, heading for a sixth tour of the neighborhood. "Really, what could go wrong?" her reasonable voice asked. "That Marcelo guy is very efficient. He has everything under control. What is there to worry about, anyway? It's not like I'm going into battle, now is it? Hell, even if I was, when has battle ever frightened me?"

Finding herself back, once again, at her own house, Madison noted a large, green van parked along the curb that hadn't been there last time around. A quick check of her watch confirmed that it was getting late, and that this was no doubt the van of the musician that Methos had recommended. A quick search of her memory brought up the name Joe. "Well, good," her inner voice almost sang. "You go in, greet this Joe guy, then take a shower and let Riccio help you pick out an appropriate outfit, and everything will be..."

The inner voice suddenly stopped, drowned out by the buzz of immortality, and Maddy quickly realized that there were more than one immortal in that house. There were no voices now, just reaction. Reaching into her shirt to pull the knife that she hid in a holster under her arm when she couldn't carry her sword, she grabbed the door knob – only to have it pulled open before she could reach it.

"Don't panic." Marcelo was blocking her entrance. "Everything is under control."

Madison stopped her forward momentum and looked carefully at Marcelo. After a tense moment, she moved her hand away from her knife. Marcelo let out the breath he had been holding and slowly backed away to let her in. "Your blues singer is here; and so is his band."

"Band?" Madison rushed into the living room to see a drum set being set up in the corner, with Riccio trying to calmly explaining why a drum set was simply not welcome in this house. "Drums?" Standing protectively in front of the offending instrument was a quartet; a young man and woman, an older man supporting himself on a cane, and an immortal. Madison slowly looked the young-looking redhead up and down, and smiled inwardly when she saw him stiffen. In a move fashioned to let this new possible threat in her house know that she was unconcerned, she turned to the man with the cane.

"Joe?" Madison was suddenly struck by the fact she was speaking in one word sentences. "Are you Joe?"

"That would be me." The man smiled genially, stepped forward, and extended his hand. "I guess there's been some sort of miscommunication."

"I guess so." Madison took the hand, but didn't return the smile. "Adam recommended a blues singer. He did not mention anything about an entourage."

"Well, strictly speaking, this would be back up," Joe nodded backward. "The drummer is Niko. Alison, there, plays guitar with me. Richie," he said, "Is my roadie. He goes where I go."

Marcelo, who had managed, somehow, to take Riccio aside and calm her down, now turned to Maddy. "You know, I think this will work out very well."

"You do?" Madison was not at all happy about this sudden change. Things were going wrong, and things were just not supposed to do that. "And why is that?"

"I think it gives things a touch of class." Marcelo contemplated the drums, and the two guitars sitting, in their cases, in the corner, next to the drums. "One blues singer says either I can't afford more, or I have this friend that needs work. No offense." At Joe's wave of unconcern, he continued. "A combo says, I care about giving you the very best, as long as it's sort of quiet and understated, as I'm sure this is going to be."

Madison turned to Joe and arched her eyebrows in silent inquiry. Joe held up his hand and shook his head. "Oh, I'll be very understated, I assure you."

Maddy took a deep breath and searched her mind for that happy voice she seemed to have left on the porch. "Right." The voice was apparently hiding for the moment, afraid to come out and face the voice of 'I told you so!'. "Well, fine, then you can stay."

"We're cool, then?" Maddy turned her attention to the young, red haired man. He had moved slightly in front of the attractive, young woman, who, Madison noted, seemed put off by the notion that someone thought she might need protecting. Maddy tried hard not to smile at the bravado of what she was now sure was an immortal almost as young as he looked.

"So what, exactly does a roadie do?" Maddy asked. "Sit around eating the food and hitting on the guests?" Maddy watched the young red-head as he did a not so slow burn. It would be amusing, she thought, to see just how long it would take for this one to challenge her.

Joe frowned, but spoke in an even, calm voice. "It's alright, Ms. Harris. He's just here to help with the equipment." He turned a stern look on Richie as he continued to talk to Maddy. "I promise you, everything will be fine."

Maddy took a smiled and nodded. "It had better be; or heads will roll." With that, she had a quiet word with Riccio, and headed upstairs for her shower. Marcelo smiled reassuringly at "the combo" and went off to the kitchen to check on the caterers. Riccio gave the drummer one last look that held a stern warning, and stalked downstairs.

When the quartet was finally alone, Richie turned to Joe and said, "Why do I get the feeling that wasn't just a figure of speech?'"

Joe's only answer was a sigh. Methos was going to owe him far more than his bar tab for this one.

ooOoo

Quiet reigned over the Harris household as musicians, florists, bartenders, and waitstaff all went about their jobs creating the perfect neighborhood soiree. That quiet lasted almost ten full minutes.

"That's it! The party is off!"

Heads turned and jaws dropped, along with two fairly expensive goblets, as the panicked and nearly naked woman stormed into the living room. In her hand she held a colored piece of cloth that probably had been a nicely pressed dressed at one time, which she thrust in Marcelo's face, as he rushed forward to avert the next crisis. "Will you look at what she expects me to wear?" She shook the dress, making it pretty much impossible to see what it was "she" expected her to wear. "I can't pull this off. I'll look like a freak!"

"Right. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Marcelo threw a warning glace toward the table, stopping a girl in wait clothes in mid giggle. "Here, let me see the dress." He took the dress, frowned, and then gave a little tug. "Ms. Harris, if you want me to look at the dress, you have to let go."

"Oh. Right." Maddy unclenched her fist, and let Marcelo take the dress and hold it up before her. It was a brightly colored, haltered sun dress, with a subtle flower print. It would hang short, but not indecently so. Marcelo considered that it probably would have suited her fine, if she had been anyone else, but he could also see that this woman would spend the entire party adjusting, and that would not be at all flattering. "Well, it's not quite you, is it?"

"Thank you!" Maddy was visibly relieved. "Riccio set this out for me and, well… just look at it," Maddy grabbed the hem of the dress and jerked it up to make sure Marcelo could not possibly miss the point. "This is just… wrong."

Marcelo shrugged. "I'm sure she thought she was doing what was best." He held out the dress again, and pretended to reconsider. "You know, it would do quite well, but I bet we could find something just a little more suited, if we use our imaginations. Would you mind if I came up to your room; help you look?"

Maddy let out a sigh that was almost as loud as the shout had been. "Oh gods. I would so appreciate that." Marcelo smiled reassuringly. This was all part of the job. Madison Harris wasn't the first party giver to panic, although maybe she was the first to do it in her underwear. He took her by the hand, never considering for a second that she might object, and led her up the stairs.

Once in her room, Marcelo took a quick look around, observing and measuring without being too obvious. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at their private quarters. He wasn't sizing up an enemy now, but he was very curious. Madison Harris was, well, different. He saw a room that was comfortable but utilitarian, much like the rest of the house. It was also scrupulously neat, with the exception of a few books scattered about the room, including several books on psychology and dream interpretation, and a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the bedside table. Marcelo noticed with interest that there wasn't an accompanying glass.

"The closet is over here." Madison stood, hands on hips, suddenly not a panicked socialite, but a serious, possible opponent, who knew when she was being sized up.

Marcelo shrugged. "Sorry. Force of habit." He joined Maddy at the walk-in closet, and began to rummage around. She had simple, but expensive, taste he noticed as he moved hangers of clothes and considered the wardrobe. He could see why the dress had mad her so uncomfortable. It was obvious that the looser fitting work out clothes and jeans were favored over the more form fitting, yet definitely tasteful, dresses that still wore their tags. Looking over these, he finally pulled a blue dress made out of very light weight denim. It was backless, but did have a high front and collar. It gathered at the waist and then moved into a flowing skirt. It was conservative, and yet daring, all at once. It was perfect.

"This is the one," he said, confidently. He held it up for approval. "Yes," he said, "This is you."

Maddy took the dress, held it up and looked into the full length mirror. "You think?"

Marcelo stood behind her, looked into the mirror over her shoulder, and nodded approvingly. "Oh, yeah. You'll look great, Ms. Harris." He moved back into the bedroom to give Maddy some privacy to finish dressing. He idly picked up a book on Jungian theory and flipped through the pages. "You really should relax, you know. Everything is under control."

"You really should call me Maddy. Everyone does." Marcelo felt hands come around from behind and creep to where hands definitely should not be creeping. "You're right, you know. I really do need to relax."

Marcelo, moved the hands, carefully, and turned to face the smiling, and suddenly very naked immortal before him. "Thank you. Really." He chose his words carefully. This was obviously not a woman he wanted to insult. "I can't. You see, Maddy, I have a strict policy of never sleeping with my clients."

If Maddy was disappointed, she hid it well. "Fine. I'll just find another way to relax." She walked around Marcelo, and sat on the bed next to the side table. "I guess I should get ready now."

Marcelo knew when he was being excused. "I'll see you down stairs, then." He left the room and closed the door behind himself. This bill was definitely going to need some refiguring.


	20. Chapter 20

_This chapter was contributed by Bladelover, SouthernBreeze, and Zalyka_

ooOooOoo

Ruth never walked slowly. She was familiar with the words "stroll," "amble," and "saunter," but not the concepts. To her way of thinking, the whole point of walking was to get where you were going. If you were going to take your time rubbernecking, you might as well just stand still.

And standing still was not an option today. She shouldn't really even take the time to stop by Donald's office with all that she had to do – the finger sandwiches were still only in the planning stage, thanks to poor Bambi's blood. But she'd been hearing about the inferior temps for two weeks now, and in all likelihood, this latest one wouldn't be any better. The least she could do was run in and try to catch up the filing and straighten out the appointment calendar. Maybe then, Donald wouldn't be late coming home.

As she entered the waiting room, she was surprised at the atmosphere of restful calm. A single patient sat reading a magazine quietly, obviously not bothered by a temp receptionist's nervous tics or unpleasant manner. The interior office, however, was likely a chaotic mess. Ruth strode to the window and was shocked by what she saw.

The office was orderly, with any exposed paperwork neatly stacked, all the corners lined up. Ruth only registered this peripherally, however, because the woman seated at the desk, who glanced up from the computer screen to smile pleasantly at her as she slid open the glass partition, was quite possibly the most ravishing creature Ruth had ever personally seen.

Her thick blonde hair had a glowing purity that made Ruth abruptly conscious of the (relatively few, for a middle-aged woman) strands of white that punctuated her own. The receptionist's features were nearly flawless – because, well, no one was perfect – with high cheekbones and tastefully tinted full lips. Her large brown eyes were full of genuine warmth and friendliness. Of course, Ruth expected that from brown eyes, because frankly, a dog's eyes were generally warm and friendly, and they were usually brown. Unlike the eyes of most dogs, however, these also gave off a sense of keen intelligence and a strictly human sense of competence.

"May I help you?"

Normally, Ruth would have been the first to speak in such a situation. It was disconcerting to have been so distracted by the girl's appearance. Unconsciously, Ruth reached up to lightly smooth her (slightly) graying blonde hair and said, "I'm Mrs. Oszszyniec."

The pink lips widened in a beautiful smile. The girl rose and said, "How nice to meet you. I'm Miranda Parker. The doctor's in a session, but he's about to finish up. Would you like to come into the office?"

Miranda disappeared for two seconds as she came around to open the door to the hallway leading to Donald's private office and session room. The door was kept locked, because one can't have just anyone walking in from the waiting room as they pleased. The people who came here, after all, were not always quite "right."

"Well, I was afraid that you might have been having a little trouble with adjusting to a new office and all," Ruth said as they came around to the other side of the partition, "but I see you've managed just fine. I'm sure Donald is thrilled, after what he's had to put up with lately."

Smiling again, Miranda said simply, "You're very kind to say so, thank you." Ruth checked off another box on the mental checklist; the girl was not only extremely competent and professional (not to mention gorgeous), she was also obviously unusually well-bred.

Glancing at Miranda's chair, Ruth smiled with something like mischief in her eyes. "I see someone didn't check the weather forecast this morning."

"I'm sorry?" Miranda said, still smiling but clearly mystified. Ruth nodded at the trench coat draped upon the back of the chair, and Miranda laughed a little sheepishly. "Yes, I'm always getting it wrong. At least I didn't bring an umbrella!"

"Well, it's too nice a coat to hang from the chair. You'll roll right over the hem. Let me hang it up for you…"

Ruth reached for the coat, and Miranda sprang forward. "No, really, I'll take care of it." Grabbing the coat, she lifted it quickly and turned toward the coat rack. Ruth thought the coat hung a little funny, as though there were something heavy in it. These younger women! They just didn't understand the damage they were doing to their clothes by filling their pockets full of heavy items. That's what purses were for, for heaven's sake.

Still, this girl was a cut or three above the norm for her age group. She moved with grace and fluidity, like a dancer. Her figure was to die for. The young men must be lined up for blocks over this one. But, no wedding band, no engagement ring.

"How long have you been temping?"

"Oh, I do mostly temp work. I move around quite a bit. I've only come to Seacouver recently, in fact."

"Then you probably don't know many people yet," Ruth said, casually flipping through a few pieces of mail.

"No, not really."

"Well, we have to fix that." Ruth smiled brightly. "There's a party in our neighborhood tonight. You really should come."

Miranda's face defined the term "taken by surprise." "I… that's very nice of you, but… I'm…"

"Busy?"

"Well, no… I mean, I…"

"Then there's nothing more to be said. Dr. Oszszyniec and I insist that you come." As Miranda struggled for a way to politely continue to object, Ruth added, "Our oldest son, Louis, is in town for the weekend. We're bringing him along." Ruth's expression indicated a sudden epiphany. "I know! The two of you should go together!"

Miranda was blushing now. "Mrs. Oszyn… Mrs. Oz, I… maybe your son won't want to…"

"Oh, of course he will. You'll like Louis. Have you seen Donald's office? There's a family picture on the desk. Wait, I have one in my wallet…"

At this moment, Donald and his patient arrived, and Miranda regained her composure in order to deal with booking more appointments and receiving payment. Donald kissed Ruth on the cheek. "Did I know you were stopping by?"

"No, I was just checking on things on my way to Fred Meyer. In fact, I have to run now." She gave him a quick peck and let herself out into the waiting room. She was halfway to the exit when she turned and came back to stand at the partition. When Miranda opened it, Ruth said, "Write your phone number and address down for me, won't you? I'll give it to Louis when I get home. The party starts at seven, and it's just a casual neighborhood housewarming. Here's a picture of him. Isn't he a dream? He'll pick you up at six-thirty, if that's all right." Handing Ruth the paper with the address and phone number, Miranda just nodded dumbly. Ruth smiled triumphantly and waved before flying away.

Donald noted with sympathy Miranda's shell-shocked demeanor. He'd often witnessed the aftermath of someone's first experience with the force of nature that was his wife. He laid a hand on Miranda's shoulder, hoping to help her back to a normal perception of reality. "The effects are only temporary. Trust me."

ooOoo

"You gotta be kidding," Colin said.

"There's no time for joking, Colin," Ruth said briskly. "Wash your hands."

"I'm not making finger sandwiches."

Ruth turned from the counter to face him, fixing him with that stern maternal gaze that had been turning his insides to instant liquid shame for decades, and his rock-solid resistance dissolved in a sudden landslide. He stomped over to the sink and washed his hands with an inarticulate growl. "Why just me? Aren't you gonna go find Louis, make him help, too?"

"Louis would probably offer to help," Ruth said meaningfully. "But as it happens, I have another job for him."

"You know, I live in L.A.," he said, drying his hands with unnecessary violence to underscore that he was far too tough for this kind of task.

"Yes, I know."

"Not in some cush suburb, either. Right there in the city."

"Mm-hmm."

"And my work takes me to some pretty rough places with some pretty rough people."

"Then finger sandwiches shouldn't pose much of a challenge for you. Here, start chopping up this celery, very finely, please."

Colin began chopping, but didn't stop grumbling. "I have to go to some tough places in my job. I deal with scary people in scary situations on a regular basis."

"Mm-hmm. Oh, yes, very nice. Dump it into this bowl, please? Now, start on this onion."

"Investigative journalism is no walk in the park, you know. Sometimes it's even dangerous," he muttered, taking the onion with a scowl.

Ruth stopped what she was doing to look at him in alarm. "How dangerous?"

All desire to inflate the hazards of his chosen profession abruptly evaporated. He shrugged and began to concentrate on the onion. "Okay, I'm maybe exaggerating a little. Is this okay?"

"What? Oh, the onion. Yes. A little finer, please."

They worked in silence for some time before Ruth said, very casually, "You know, from time to time, the Seacouver Sentinel has openings on its staff."

At this, Colin hid an affectionate grin. Ruth truly believed that she could keep her entire family – and all its extensions – safe and happy if they would just stay within the Seacouver city limits.

"Yeah, I know. But I like it in L.A. I like the work that I'm doing, really."

"Hey, Mom, I was wondering if…" Louis entered the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. "Wow! I didn't know Martha Stewart had a kid brother."

"Thank God." Colin plunked his knife onto the counter. "The relief shift is here."

"Oh, no," Ruth told him. "You're not done. Pick up that knife and keep chopping."

"But he's better at this kind of stuff."

"Well, that's not such a big deal," said Louis, taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator, "since I'm better than you at pretty much everything."

"Anyway," Ruth continued, as though their banter was so much white noise, "Louis has to get ready for his date."

"Date!" Louis and Colin wore identical expressions of surprise as they exclaimed simultaneously.

"Yes. Your father's latest temp is new in town, and I invited her to the party. I mentioned you were in town, unattached, and she seemed thrilled when I suggested you as her escort."

"You set me up with a complete stranger without asking me first?"

"Of course not. Your father knows her. And I've met her, of course. Beautiful girl. Stunning, actually."

"I meant," Louis said patiently, "she's a stranger to me."

"Don't be silly. She won't be a stranger once you pick her up for the party."

Louis looked at Colin, who simply shrugged. They'd each been searching for the means of combating Ruth's pseudo-logic since childhood, with still no answer in sight.

"I said you'd pick her up at six-thirty, so you'd better get dressed and ready. Let's see, I believe I put her address in my purse…" Wiping her hands automatically on a kitchen towel, Ruth left in search of her handbag and the key to Louis's happiness.

"Great," Louis muttered. "Set up by my mother to take someone I don't know to a party. Nothing like a nice, awkward evening."

"Well, at least your mom says she's hot."

"She said she was pretty."

"She said she was 'stunning.'"

"Whatever. Regardless, I'm stuck with trying to come up with conversation all night with a woman I don't know at a party full of people she doesn't know."

"Dude," Colin nodded toward the counter before him, "I'm chopping up an onion."

"Guess it stinks for both of us, then," Louis said as Ruth came back waving a slip of paper like a winning lottery ticket.

ooOoo

Like many cities on the Pacific west coast, Seacouver had enjoyed a building-boom of Victorian architecture in the mid to late-nineteenth century. With the advent of the Great Depression, however, many of the stately old homes had been converted to other uses. In districts where the city had taken over old neighborhoods, antique shops now occupied some, while others housed shops, offices, or restaurants. In areas that remained residential neighborhoods, the old treasures were better preserved, but more than a few were bed & breakfasts, or had been divided into condos or apartments.

It was in one of the latter that Miranda now lived. Hers was the apartment occupying the front quarter of the third floor of an elegant old mansion on a tree-lined avenue in one of the older quarters of the city. She had chosen the location primarily because of its eclectic atmosphere. All around the neighborhood, family-owned markets and coffee shops clung to life amid small pubs, playhouses and fortune-tellers' shops. She found it exciting just to walk down the street.

But right now, she stood in front of her open closet wondering again how she had found herself in this predicament. The corners of her lips turned up at the thought of the petite dynamo who'd come into the office that afternoon. Mrs. Oz would have fit in perfectly with the league of Charleston matriarchs who had ruled society and largely kept the South together in the years during and after the war still known in some older circles as "the War of Northern Aggression."

In spite of what most people thought, planning soirées and "going calling" had only been a part of what those ladies had done for their beloved confederacy. Besides acting as nurses in the hospitals, and tearing their expensive petticoats into ribbons to make bandages for the wounded, they had donated their own gold and silver to the confederate government, and organized fund raisers for the express purpose of strong-arming others into doing the same.

And they had been notorious matchmakers, she thought, grimly. Although, judging by by the photo his mother had shown her, Louis promised to be a very handsome combination of his parents' DNA. Even so, Miranda didn't relish the idea of spending the evening in awkward conversation with someone she didn't know at a party with even more people she didn't know. For a brief moment she considered begging off with the excuse of a headache, but it was only for a moment. She had made a commitment and would see it through no matter what.

With a resolute sigh, she pulled a pair of fawn slacks from their hanger, then took a white, short-sleeved, turtle-neck sweater from her dresser drawer. After pulling them both on over a pair of lacy silk panties and matching bra, she surveyed herself in the cheval mirror in the corner. Dressy enough for meeting new people, she decided, but casual enough for a neighborhood housewarming...and topped with her chocolate brown duster, it would make the perfect outfit for a girl carrying a sword in her pocket.

Finally satisfied with her wardrobe, she twisted her hair up into a neat chignon and spritzed herself lightly with fresh perfume. Just as she finished touching up her makeup, a knock signaled that her date was at the door. She took a deep breath, and to her reflection in the mirror, said, "Well, here goes nothing".

"Hi! You must be Louis Oszszyniec," she was smiling a few moments later.

"And you must be the poor woman my mother roped into being my date for the evening," With a captivating smile, Louis reached out to take her hand in his and lightly grasp her fingers. "I'm impressed! Most people just say 'Oz.'"

"Miranda Parker, and I've been practicing all afternoon," she introduced herself with a slightly embarrassed grin. She was charmed by his manner…and immediately on her guard. In both appearance and demeanor, he bore a striking resemblance to Jack Devlin, her third—and last—husband. Handsome, charismatic, and from a very good family, he had seemed the perfect catch…until she had walked in on him "dictating a letter" to his secretary one afternoon. That had been almost fifty years ago, and she was long over the man, but the distrust of gorgeous, over-confident men still lingered.

Stiffening imperceptibly, she said, "Your mother is quite a woman."

"She certainly is that." Louis chuckled. If he sensed her uneasiness, he gave no indication of it.

"Please, come in and make yourself comfortable," she said, waving him toward a small parlor area to the right of the door. "I'll just be a minute. Could I get you drink while you wait?"

At his polite refusal, she slipped around the corner and into the hallway leading to her bedroom, stopping for a moment to surreptitiously observe her date from the shadows. Watching him, she found herself sizing him up, almost as if he were an opponent… an approach that she had found worked as well with the game of dating as the Game of immortality. She did not like to be caught off guard in either situation.

The tiny parlor was furnished comfortably with an upholstered sofa and chair, but he did not choose to sit on either of them. Instead, he toured the room, first moving to the bookcase to review the titles arrayed there, then to the fireplace to admire her art glass collection on the mantle. She held her breath when he picked up a delicate vase and nearly choked when he almost fumbled it as he set it back down. Up until that moment, he had been the picture of cool, impenetrable confidence, but the momentary panic that flashed across his face at the near disaster showed a chink in that armor.

With an amused smile, she continued on to her bedroom to get her duster and to mull over her initial impressions. Shoving the memory of her ex-husband aside, she resolved to give Louis a chance. He was certainly a very handsome, well-groomed man with, so far, impeccable manners; just the type she preferred. Just because he was good-looking did not mean he would turn out to be a cad, she reminded herself.

Tucking a small, slender blade into the special pocket sewn into her duster, she turned to the mirror one last time to be sure there were no tell-tale outlines showing. Satisfied the sword was well hidden in the folds of fabric, she reassured her reflection, "Besides, it's just one date."

ooOoo

Parked in the lot of Dunkin Donuts after her escape from Williams Medical Park, Alex had watched the building Miranda had entered... the same office that belonged to Dr. Oz. She was ready to make a quiet exit to get home when she had a thought. She had assumed the woman was another patient, scheduled for the session after her, but what if the woman worked in that office? If the woman was indeed an employee in that office, she would have access to information such as Alex's home address and appointment time… she could be waiting for Alex at her next appointment or could simply show up at her house. She decided the best move would be to wait. If the woman was a patient, she would be back outside in less than an hour. If she wasn't out in an hour, then it would mean she was an employee… and that would be more of a problem.

Alex patiently waited in her car, occupying her time with a book of crossword puzzles. After several hours Miranda reappeared and drove away in her green convertible. Alex quickly followed, always staying a few cars back. She wasn't about to let some immortal have access to information of her whereabouts without doing a little reconnaissance of her own. She had followed the car to a historic Victorian building where she again parked at what she considered a discreet distance.

Before long a light blue Ford Taurus pulled up to the curb in front of the Victorian and a handsome young man in a navy blue shirt and khaki pants got out and walked up to the door. He looked strangely familiar to her, but she could not remember seeing him before. Alex watched as he entered the building and shut the door behind him.

Several minutes later she saw the door open again and saw the same man accompanied by Miranda, who appeared to have changed her clothes to something a little more casual than what she wore to Donald's office. "A date?" Alex murmured to herself. As the couple drove down the road away from the city, she started her own car and followed them again, still carefully keeping her distance.


End file.
